The Woken Gods

by Gwenda Bond

  We stop before a door covered in carvings of angels and devils, weeping and laughing. Oz knocks. “Come,” says a man’s voice.

  Something about the voice is familiar-ish.

  Oz turns the knob, pauses, “This is where I leave you. I hope everything works out how you want it to.”

  “Actually… would you mind waiting out here?” I want someone I know – even if it’s someone I just met – out here. In case of what, I don’t know, but I do.

  “Sure, I’ll stay.”

  “Come,” the man’s voice says again.

  “You better get in there,” Oz says, and opens the door for me.

  “OK, OK,” I say, and take a few steps into the room.

  Oz closes the door behind me. The office is cavernous but well-lit, filled with expensive-looking art and furniture. There are two people in the room. Neither is my father.

  “Where’s my dad?” I ask them. “I want to see him now.”

  When the man behind the desk stands, I recognize him. And know why his voice was familiar. He’s William Bronson, the director of the Society. The dark-skinned, freckled woman sitting across from him is one of their spokespeople, I think. She wears a suit, her Society bars pinned to the breast.

  “I wish that were possible,” Bronson says. He’s looking at me in a way that makes me even more uncomfortable. Like I’m his long-lost daughter. “Please sit.” He gestures to the empty chair beside the woman.

  “I’m Rose Greene,” the woman says, “and I’m pleased to meet you, Kyra.”

  I can smell the lie in the words from a mile away. “Where is my dad?” I ask again.

  Bronson sits, and I notice the portrait on the wall behind him. Without meaning to, I take a few slow steps toward it. The woman in the painting has glossy brownish-black hair and wears a safari jacket. She looks like she’s a few seconds from laughter. Her skin is the same olive as my mother’s. I’ve seen her before – in a photo my mother was holding the day before she left us. She was drinking, a short glass filled with brown liquor, a picture clutched in her hand of her as a teenager with this woman. Their arms were around each other, and they were in long flowered sundresses, smiling. There was a man behind them, but his face had been shadowed. Who’s that? I asked, and she said through tears, It’s my parents. My mother.

  If William Bronson has the woman’s portrait in his office… in such a place of prominence… and Oz said he was bringing me to… Stumbling back a few steps, I don’t shrug Rose off when she takes my arm and guides me into the empty chair. I practically fall into it.

  “They weren’t wrong. You really are my grandfather, aren’t you? And that’s my grandmother… Is she…”

  “I am,” he says, “but I’m sorry. Gabrielle passed away when your mother was sixteen. An accident.”

  So my parents hadn’t lied about that. Only that my grandfather was dead. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. Every day. But that’s not why you’re here.”

  I have a million questions, but only one that’s pressing. “Where is my dad? I know he works for you.”

  Bronson folds his hands over each other and leans forward. “You do, but you don’t know exactly what he does.”

  “He’s a librarian.”

  He shakes his head. “Please know it was never my idea to keep any of this from you. It was their wish – your mother and father’s. He’s not a librarian. He’s a senior operative in the Society, from one of our oldest and most decorated families. And he’s missing.”

  I don’t where to start with my disbelief. But I look at the painting of the woman with the dancing eyes. This apparently is my grandfather, this man who’s telling me my father is missing. My father who told me this morning that he loved me and to leave the city if he ever didn’t come home.

  I drag in a breath, hating that they’ll be able to hear how close I am to crying. “What happened?”

  “I know this is too much to take in, especially after the attack, but it’s important you know. In case you can help us find him.” Bronson’s manner is so kindly, so grandfatherly.

  We just met. “What do you want from me?”

  The wording surprises him. He sits back in his fancy leather chair. His tone stays sympathetic as he goes on. “Earlier today, your father stole a powerful relic.”

  “How can he steal it if he’s one of you? He’d be allowed to take it.” I don’t know why I’m defending Dad. He’s been lying to me since forever. And so has Mom.

  “If he’d logged it out, that would have been fine. In theory. But this particular relic is not one we’d ever allow in the field. It’s too dangerous. He took it and now we can’t find him. Has he said anything to you that was strange in the past few days? We want to bring him in before it’s too late for him to come back from this.”

  Isn’t it already too late when you steal a dangerous relic? So I say, “Nothing.”

  “Kyra,” Rose puts in, “wanting to protect him is only natural. But you should know, you’re risking everything by doing it. If he said something, anything, tell us.”

  Dad may be a liar, but no way am I selling him out this quick. All he said was for me to leave. Anger starts to flicker inside me. The burn of it feels better than being so thrown, than feeling like everything ever is a lie. “What does the relic do?”

  Bronson and Rose don’t respond. They look at each other like parents who’ve agreed to keep a secret.

  “If you want me to help you, I need details.”

  Bronson opens his hands, and starts to talk. “That’s fair. I don’t see how it will hurt for you to know, as long as you promise to keep this confidential.”

  I don’t cross my fingers, but I also don’t make the promise out loud. I nod.

  “The relic is called the Solstice Was,” he says. “It’s a Was scepter – a walking stick with an elaborate headpiece and a forked tail, used in Egyptian funerary customs.”

  “Like in Indiana Jones?” It just slips out.

  Bronson comes close to smiling, openly amused. “Yes, like in Indiana Jones. Only real.” When he continues, he’s serious again. “This one was made by Set and smuggled onto a coffin during the summer solstice thousands of years ago. He had planned to use it to open his own door to the Afterlife, and usurp Osiris’ command. The relic worked, but Osiris outwitted Set.”

  A door to the Afterlife. “Oh.”

  “Yes,” Rose says. “Oh.”

  “But why would Set attack me?”

  “We’re not sure. But we believe your father is working with one or more gods,” Bronson says. “Until we find him, we won’t know which ones for sure.”

  I want to make sure my assumption about why the relic would be dangerous is right. “They’d be able to resurrect then, wouldn’t they? If that door reopens? You wouldn’t have any control over them.”

  “We don’t have control of them now,” Bronson says. “We have weapons. That’s all. The only thing gods fear is real, permanent death. If the Solstice Was is used successfully in a ritual on the solstice, then…”

  “But solstice is in a few days,” I say.

  “Four. You see our problem,” Rose says. “Now, Kyra, think hard. Is there anything your father might have said? Anything that didn’t make sense at the time?”

  I do think, but about what my next move is. What do I do with all this? This is the one place my dad definitely isn’t.

  “I’d like to see my friends,” I say, finally.

  Bronson frowns, and during his moment of confusion, I stand. “Wait–” But I’m already at the door and pulling it open. Bronson says, “Osborne, she’s not leaving.”

  Oz plants himself in the doorway. I start to worry. “I just want to see Bree and Tam,” I say.

  There’s a commotion in the hallway. Tam appears behind Oz, and with him are Bree and his dad. Ben Nguyen may be a few inches shorter than his son and soft-spoken, but he has an undeniable presence. One the Society is all too familiar with. A handful of operatives trail them, and one star
ts: “I tried to stop him, sir, but he said he’d go to the media and they insisted–”

  Ben holds up a hand to silence the man. “Bill, what’s going on here?”

  I say, “Ben, I’m so glad to see you. I was just telling them I want to leave.”

  Tam ducks around Oz, who stands, waiting, presumably for his orders. I take Tam’s hand when he offers it, and he pulls me forward with him. Oz doesn’t move out of the way.

  “Kyra,” Bronson says. “Please wait.”

  The please makes me hold up.

  “I’d rather you stayed here, where we can protect you,” he says.

  I do turn to him, then. I feel better with my friends at my back. There’s no way Tam’s dad won’t enjoy showing up William Bronson.

  “My dad may be a Society operative, but he clearly didn’t want me to know anything about it. He didn’t want me anywhere near you guys. So I’m leaving with them.” Bronson’s mouth drops open. Rose’s eyes have narrowed, and maybe what I see there is respect. I turn to Ben and say, “Please don’t leave me here. They claim my father is missing. He wouldn’t want me left here.”

  Ben considers briefly, and informs Bronson, “You’ve already bugged our phone, so you’ll know where to find her.” He waves Tam and I forward, and we go toward him. “Let them,” Bronson says, and Oz shifts so he’s only half in the doorway.

  I have to pass close to him, and there’s a question on his face. He did try to warn me, and maybe that’s why I feel the urge to explain. “I can’t stay here, gallant warrior,” I say, low. “I’m no damsel in distress.”

  He doesn’t respond. He joins Rose and Bronson in the office, like a good operative. I pause in the hall and look back at a still-astonished Bronson. “It’s really nothing personal. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Remember, the more people who know about your father, the worse it will go for him,” Bronson says, no doubt to remind me about the “confidential information”, but being careful because of Ben. He studies me for a long moment. “You can come back here anytime. You are my granddaughter, Kyra, and you will always have sanctuary here. I’ll do my best to protect our family.”

  “Good to know,” I say.

  But I leave without looking back.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I’m squished between Tam and Bree on one side of the rickety commercial coach Ben has hired, with him occupying the bench across from us solo. Earlier, I might have worried about being so close to Tam, asked him to move, but it feels nice to have friends on either side of me. It keeps me from feeling so untethered, like I might as well float away, not much left to anchor me here.

  And that’s what Dad wants, for me to go.

  The coach jostles along the street toward my house. I turn what Legba said about my dad being at Enki House – he had to mean Dad, didn’t he? – over and over in my mind, but first I need to be sure he’s not at home. That this is really happening.

  “So sorry about this, Ben,” I say.

  “It’s OK. I’d need to see that he was gone for myself, too. We can also check if they file the right paperwork for a missing person with the police. And you’ll need to pack a bag… Only if he’s not there, of course.”

  Tam’s parents, Ben and Maya, may get distracted by their work with the Skeptics, but they’re always there for Tam when needed. Maya’s out of town visiting the Chicago chapter, and, according to Ben, will be sad she missed the excitement. Your son being in a god-caused sandstorm probably shouldn’t be considered “excitement”. But at least Ben’s not a secret Society agent.

  Bree lays her head on my shoulder. On her lap, her fingernails are painted with tiny yellow daisies, in sharp contrast to the darkness of her art. Her mom was on shift at the station, but Ben knows her too, and gave her a call. She’s working late, so Bree’s staying with Ben and Tam tonight as well.

  Bree says, “So your dad’s a super-librarian.”

  “I guess,” I say. “I have a suggestion for your art.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your gods need to be scarier.”

  She snorts. “Noted and agreed. That was… But your dad is a bigger shock.”

  “The biggest.” I haven’t told them about the Was yet. I don’t want to do it in front of Ben.

  Tam has been staring out the window, but he angles toward us. “You really had no idea about your dad?”

  He seems so intense, as if the truth about my dad matters to him as much as it does to me. I can’t imagine why. “None. I’m an idiot.”

  “No,” Bree says, and I use it as an excuse to turn from Tam, though I can still feel him watching me. “We all believe lies from people we love. And, hey, he stuck around. My dad doesn’t even bother to visit.”

  “Or send you birthday bribes out of guilt. Agreed, your dad sucks. But mine… Well, I just hope I get a chance to yell at him.” I’m trying to keep it together. Part of me wants to curl into a ball, like I did during the attack. All of me wants to shower off the remnants of the sandstorm.

  The carriage pulls to a stop in front of the townhouse.

  “You want company?” Tam asks.

  “No. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go alone.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?” Tam persists.

  “Son, she’ll be fine,” Ben says. “Bronson assured me there will be no more attacks against her and, for once, I believe him. We’ll wait right here, Kyra.”

  I climb out, digging the key from my backpack, and let myself inside. My boots sit right next to the door, where I left them when I changed into my sneakers. Nothing has moved. Dad hasn’t been home.

  I close my eyes and stand in the dark listening to the house. Hoping I’ll hear him. Hoping I’m wrong. Finally, I flip on the lights. I love you, you know that. Lies or no lies, I can’t stand the idea of a fight where I disappointed him being our last conversation.

  Instead of my room, I climb the stairs and go to his. The bed is neatly made, as usual, and not a thing is out of place. Mine is a disaster area. Or that’s what he always calls it.

  The hiding place where we used to stash notes for each other as a game is behind his desk in the corner. There’s a picture of Mom there, beaming up at the camera with her hands in the dirt of our long-gone backyard flower garden. I press aside the wish that she could be here to help me deal with this, before I lay the frame down flat and push the desk out from the wall.

  An upside of finding out about Bronson is that I believe he’ll do his best to watch out for her. That’s something.

  I crouch and peel up the cream-and-maroon striped wallpaper from the baseboard, exactly six inches from the corner. There’s a brick-sized hole behind it, and I stick my hand in sideways. The notes we left for each other when I was little were a back and forth of funny meaningless nothings. I know this is where he’d hide the money he mentioned.

  My hand touches a wrapped bundle. I pull it out and lay it on my lap. The cloth is a worn-soft Ramones T-shirt that I have never seen before. I like it, but no clue there. I unfold the fabric and gasp.

  Though I was expecting money, I wasn’t expecting this much. Several stacks of hundreds and fifties and twenties spill out. In the middle of them, there’s a plastic ID card with my picture. I squint to read the name on it. Amelia Jones. Amelia is from Ohio, and two years older than me. There is also a note, disappointingly short, written in Dad’s handwriting: If you’re reading this, it better mean I’m no longer here. This is not party money and a fake ID for no reason. It’s too late for me to explain now, but you probably know some of the truth already. There are other things you can’t know. Shouldn’t know. Please, leave the city. Go far. Be as careful as you can. Know that we love you. Dad.

  Only after some unknown amount of time has passed do I realize that I’m rocking back and forth over the contents of the T-shirt. It feels as if someone has reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until there should be nothing left, but instead my heart is so full it hurts.

  I get up and stagger like I’m drunk.
Bracing one hand on the desk, I fix on Mom’s smiling face in the picture frame, a captive piece of the past, and wait until my breathing evens out. I can get through this. I can deal. I have to.

  “Kyra?” Ben calls from downstairs.

  “Be out in a minute.”

  I put the cash and the ID in my backpack, though I have no plans to be Amelia Jones anytime soon. Not on my own.

  Legba told me where Dad is. I just have to figure out how to get to him.

  The driver lets us out in front of Tam’s single-story white clapboard. The neighborhood is nowhere near as swanky as mine and Bree’s Capitol Hill. A skinny TV tower is rigged to the roof, its thin rusted metal poles joined at crooked angles that branch into a receiver at the top. It’s like a – slightly – more modern version of a weather vane, only trapping broadcast signals instead of gauging wind currents. Most stations use old-school transmitters, since they’re more reliable here.

  Ben tips the driver, making a joke about the “in God we trust” phrase still being on the bill. The driver laughs, and the horses clip-clop the carriage away.

  Tam unlocks the door and we go inside, stopping in the alcove. “I’d really love a shower,” I say, rubbing a gritty arm.

  Bree has been subdued since we left my place, and we didn’t bother with hers. I tossed some clothes she’d left at my house in with my stuff. But she shakes her head. “I’ll fight you to the death to go first.”

  I hold up my hands. “It’s all you.”

  “I’m last then.” Tam rolls his eyes. “Come on, I’ll get you towels.”

  Ben clears his throat. “Tam, you’ll sleep out here on the couch tonight. The girls can take your bed. Understood?”

  Tam says, “Duh.”

  I can see he’s embarrassed. Maybe his dad doesn’t know we’re not on again, off again, but only off. “Towels,” I prompt.

  “Right this way,” he says.

  “Going to catch the news. I’ll be right out here,” Ben reminds us.

  “Dad,” Tam says.

  Ben goes into the living room and flips on the TV. I hear Bree’s Mom’s voice emerge. She’s on screen, anchoring a report.