The Woken Gods

by Gwenda Bond

  “We all did. Strict orders not to make contact. Your mom and dad’s wishes. Your mom’s mostly, I think.” He shakes his head. “I upset you.”

  I wave it off. “Nah,” I say, “finding out your parents basically conspired to keep you in the dark your whole life… it’s nothing. Happens to everyone.”

  I can tell I fool him not at all. “Well, if it were me, I’d be pretty thrown.”

  I wonder again what his story is. Where are his parents? Why is he Bronson’s ward? But I can’t ask those questions. I don’t have the right. In this moment, I’m keenly aware that the pretenses I’m here under are false.

  It bothers me that I want to not have to trick Oz, to confide in him. Because there’s not going to be any way around it and I can’t. “Will you show me around tomorrow?” I ask.

  “I’m sure your grandfather will. He was really happy you came. Maybe… I know this is a tragedy for you. What’s happening with your dad. But maybe it won’t all turn out to be one?”

  I think of blood and doom and death. Of that snarling Was scepter at the center of everything. “Do you trust Bronson?”

  Oz does me the favor of considering. “He took me in. He’s demanding, but kind when it counts. Yes,” he says, and it seems like he had to talk himself into it. “Yes, I do.”

  “Good,” I say. “I better get back upstairs. Sleep. Another long day tomorrow.”

  I move to breeze past, but he touches my upper arm right where the T-shirt stops. I try to recall if I ever had this many nerve endings before, if it felt like this when Tam casually touched me. The reaction could be because Oz is an impossibility.

  “Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad,” he says. “We’ll help get you through it. I promise you that, Kyra Locke.”

  The sound of my name on his lips is almost as strange as knowing he was aware of my existence for years. Years that I didn’t know about any of this.

  The fact is, though, he’ll hate me before this is all over. That’s a given, and something I do already regret. Thinking about tomorrow, I find my appetite’s gone. So I say, “Good night,” and put the dead woman’s cookie back on the plate as I leave.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next time I wake the room is light, so I can see what I missed the night before. Which isn’t much, except wallpaper with cotton candy pink stripes and curtains with an over-the-top prissy flower print. The curtains have also been tied back. Perhaps it’s a subtle nudge to get out of bed.

  Between the color scheme and the flowers, I realize… This could have been my mom’s room.

  I’m almost afraid to find out if it is. The room is so stuffy compared to our house, which she decorated in old maps and photos and watercolors and warm shades. I can’t imagine her growing up with all this heavy wood furniture and cold classiness. Conflicted about whether I want to know, I climb out of bed and check the dresser for evidence. The drawers are empty of anything but spare sheets. The closet door is open and it’s empty too – except for a lone outfit on a hanger.

  I walk over to get a better look, disbelieving.

  When I came back up the night before, I took off my boots and tossed them on the floor. They’re neatly arranged below the clothes. Which means the ensemble is for me.

  It isn’t a uniform. Not exactly. But it’s close. Maybe this is what operatives wear when they’re training? Or studying? It’s almost too good to be true. They left me a costume that will show precisely what I want them to see. That I’m here to become one of them. Bronson’s granddaughter, operative.

  More like “traitor’s freak daughter we all already knew about”, but I have to cling to my illusions to make it through this. I’m well aware that even with them I may be in for major trouble.

  The adjoining bathroom has towels waiting and expensive travel-sized bottles of goop in the shower. So I take a quick one, making an attempt to be fresh-faced and scrubbed clean of the last remnants of the face paint. I consider pulling my hair back into a ponytail afterward, but I don’t want to go overboard.

  Dressing in the clothes is odd. The navy fabric is stretchy, fitted, and so not my style. No awful bulky padding, at least. But also no stripes. I was really hoping for stripes.

  I dig in my backpack for lipstick, because hello? Despite everything, I would like Oz to remember me as that devil girl who’s cute. After I find it and put it on, something clicks. I empty the backpack to confirm what’s no longer there. Someone has taken most of the money, leaving me only a hundred bucks. They must know I can’t get far with that. The fake ID is gone too. Knowing someone snooped through my stuff is worse than the loss, but I’m not that surprised. I don’t trust anyone here, so there’s no reason to expect them to trust me.

  Stuffing the hundred in my pocket, I repack my stuff – including the Ramones T-shirt. I’ll have to leave the backpack here today, but I want everything ready to go. In case.

  As soon as I open the door and start into the hall, Bronson greets me. “Good morning. Well, good late morning.” He grips a giant coffee mug with both hands. “We wanted to let you sleep in. I see you found the clothes. They’re OK?”

  Why’d you take the money? But I simply nod. “This is why I’m here. My parents, they took this from me. This life.”

  “You can have it now.” He can’t hide how much the idea pleases him. “But are you positive you’re not just angry at your dad? He does bring that out in people. From the admittedly little I’ve seen, this” – he waves his hand at the outfit – “doesn’t seem like your style.”

  I meet his eyes, unflinching. “My dad and I… We’ve never been close. He’s always been too distracted to pay attention to me. When I met you the other day, I was in shock. Then I guess I thought since I knew the lie, since it was out in the open, it would be different. That things between Dad and me would be different. That he’d care about being there for me. But you saw what he did. You were there. He left me without a thought. Again.”

  “I don’t think it was that easy for him. And you seemed pretty upset with me.”

  “I was.” I force myself to keep meeting his eyes, to sell every last bit of this as gospel. Besides, it’s not so far from being true. “All I’ve wanted, since Mom left, was my family back.”

  He starts to speak, but I hold up my hand. “I don’t know you. But we are family, like you said. And I want to. I want to have a place in the world. Somewhere to go. Dad, he just told me to leave town, and Mom isn’t able to be there for me. I know you took the money out of my backpack and I don’t care. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want a place here. I want to know who I am now, after all the lies are gone.”

  Bronson rakes a hand through graying hair. He really does look like the definition of a kindly grandfather. What I want to ask is: How did you wake them? How did you do it without getting caught? You really think you can pull this off too? Instead I add, “You believe me, don’t you? I have no reason to lie.”

  “You remind me of your grandmother,” he says, finally. “She would adore how direct you are. You take after her in that. Not me. I’m the politician. But I’ve wanted to build our family back since your mother left it too. I can help you find that place you want. It would be my honor, in fact.”

  I reach out and take the cup of coffee he’s holding. After a sip, I ask, “Where do we start?”

  “Breakfast,” he says, “and then we’ll visit the family reliquaries.”

  I hesitate.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “I’ll probably cry at some point. I can’t help it. He’s my dad, still. Just warning you.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” he says. “I hope I’m there when you do, so I can help.”

  After showing me to the long empty dining room table where I’m to eat breakfast solo, Bronson goes into his office. Ann, the cook and housekeeper, brings me eggs over easy and toast. She’s a nice middle-aged woman with curly red hair and a service uniform. I’m betting she’s the one who crept into my room for the leaving of things. When
she sees I’m alone, she returns to the kitchen and then sneaks two pieces of bacon onto my plate. “Mr Bronson can’t have it anymore. But you’re a growing girl.”

  “And bacon is packed with nutrients,” I say.

  She grins as I take a bite.

  “Do you make it for Oz too?”

  “Yes. Don’t tell.” She winks, puts her finger in front of her lips. “You’ll be good for the house,” she says.

  I want to ask if Oz and Justin are around, and if they aren’t, where they are. But… I feel shy about it because of my middle of the night confab with Oz.

  When I finish eating, I seek out Bronson in his office. He’s making notes in a ledger of some kind while talking on the phone. “3.30, sharp,” he says, and hangs up. I earn another smile as he rises from the desk. His coat’s draped over the back of the leather chair, and he swings it on.

  “What’s at 3.30?” I ask.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” he says. “Ready?”

  “More than.” Neither of us is going to be fully open with the other, apparently. But I let it pass. For now.

  There’s a fancy black carriage with the Society’s symbol – the wavy-lined sun rays over a book – where an old-school crest would have gone in some other era. Anzu sits on the sidewalk beside it. He sniffs the air, and I do my best to think “this is my grandfather who I love” so he won’t attack Bronson, even though he can probably scent the reality of the situation.

  “If he’s making you uncomfortable, we can get rid of him,” Bronson says. “I could send someone to speak with Enki.”

  Oz must have explained the god’s presence as guard already, since otherwise I’d expect a few more questions.

  “I’m sure he’ll go away on his own, once everything’s over.” Assuming it ever is.

  Anzu growls when Bronson puts an arm lightly around my shoulders to steer me into the carriage. I shoot lion-face a stop that right now look, and regret it when his liquid gold eyes give me one back that’s more than a little bit hungry. But he stays where he is.

  For all I know, Bronson’s carrying a relic for defense if needed, and Anzu can sense it. I breathe slightly easier once we’re inside on the bench seats opposite each other. As we rattle away, I try and figure out where we are. The street’s unfamiliar, and most of the other once-grand houses on it are closed up. The pavement and sidewalk are cracked in spots, and the carriage steers wide at one point around a huge sunken patch of asphalt.

  “Are we on Capitol Hill?”

  “We’re just a bit off the Mall. Sometimes the best disguise is a little squalor. No neighbors this way. The director always occupies this address.”

  “Smart.” I drum my fingers on the seat.

  I’m having trouble in the light of day believing that Bronson’s behind all this, collaborating and maneuvering to put my dad in harm’s way, bargaining with gods. But even if Legba isn’t telling the truth, Mom is. She trusts him. So his advice remains mine – and Dad’s – best bet for now.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Good thing I’m not a woman.”

  “Women don’t really care about age.” But then I realize I have no idea. “Do they? I won’t.”

  “I hope you’re right. But some of them do. Some men too,” he says, confidingly. “But I’m not fussy like that. I’m sixty-six. I still have all my hair and we Bronsons usually live to a hundred. My whole life is ahead of me.” His hands clasp in his lap, his index finger tapping his knuckles. “Just like yours is for you. I’ve always kept tabs on you, Kyra, even though we weren’t allowed to know each other. Now that your heritage is open to you, you can be who you were always meant to be.” He unfolds his hands and relaxes the right one to reveal a small object in middle of his palm. “Take a look at it.”

  I lean forward. It’s a blue glass eye, a black dot where a pupil would be.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “The key to the Locke family reliquary. That’s where we’re going first.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “Of course. It now belongs to you. You should know that I won’t let anyone judge you because of what Henry did.”

  I put my hand out and the blue glass drops into it, cold against the skin of my palm.

  “You can’t keep people from doing that. People will judge no matter what.” When he looks skeptical, I say, “Trust me. I’m in high school. I know these things.”

  He snorts with appreciation. “I have a confession to make.”

  Don’t get your hopes up. “Spill.”

  “I didn’t expect to like you so much.”

  I have no idea what to do with that, so I roll with it. “Likewise.”

  It’s sort of true, like everything else I’ve told him. I don’t want to like him. I want to hate him. That would make this easier. But it’s hard to get there, when he grins as he scoots back in the seat. He really does seem happy that I’m here.

  I turn the glass eye over and over in my hand and watch as we pass the familiar sights of the Mall. When we reach the Jefferson, the operatives are told not to worry about Anzu lurking outside. Part of the treaty is gods don’t come and go from this building without invitation. The guards and operatives we encounter say, “Morning, director!” or, “Hello, sir!” to Bronson, but nothing to me. They stand at stiff attention. If Oz hadn’t warned me, I’d be more than thrown by the way they try to get a look at me, and the way they exchange looks after, careful so Bronson doesn’t see. As if I’m an exotic alien life form arriving from outer space, or an overly pampered pet. Prepared, I’m able to smile brightly at them, to make my grandfather chuckle so they get the message that I’m here to stay, that I’m under his protection and if he did see them gossiping, they’d be sorry.

  Bull, in another word. But bull I want them to believe. I enjoy pretending for their benefit, even.

  Bronson takes me down one level, then two, on marble staircases wide enough for us to walk beside each other, and then up a long hall with dangling gold light fixtures. Patterned flooring and identical heavy doors flank the hall, making it seem to stretch into infinity. For all I know, it might.

  “I’d expect the family relics to be in dusty stone crypts,” I admit. “Though these doors could hide anything. Even crypts. Which would make you a crypt keeper.”

  “Of sorts,” he says, dryly. “We’re a little more modern than that now. Give us some credit. These are more like archives of family history and relics. Most are in other Society headquarters, because moving a reliquary is no small project. But those of us based in D.C. maintain ours here. You’ll see.”

  On closer look, the doors aren’t exactly the same. There are sigils beside them that change, each one a different House So-and-So. Wasserman, Dulac, Weisz, Ahmed, Mondor…

  “That’s mine,” Bronson says, indicating a roaring winged lion with the label House Bronson. “We’ll do it next.”

  “Funny that the gods have houses too.”

  “A house is a place of power,” Bronson says, pleased. “That’s a good observation.”

  I resist the satisfaction the compliment gives me.

  Bronson stops at a door marked House Locke. The family sigil is an elaborate rendering of a key, surrounded by flourishes of radiating light. He gestures, says, “Use the key. Your bloodline gives you the right. It’ll know you.”

  “So only me or Dad can open this?”

  “Or your mother. These keys are produced with an iron bowl that belonged to Hera. It was a gift from her guard, the hundred-eyed Argus Panoptes. The eyes, like his, don’t make errors. They only let in those who they should.”

  The glass is still cool against my skin, even though my palm should have warmed it by now. I have a thought. “Where did Dad steal that relic from the other day?”

  Bronson’s jaw tightens. “From my reliquary.”

  Which means it’s probably back there, waiting for the ritual. “But how if…?”

  “Your mother gave him her key, and he shares Bronson b
lood by marriage.” He sounds irritated, but then relaxes. “As do you. That’s why we’re visiting both reliquaries. You’re a part of two houses. You’ll receive a key to the Bronson reliquary once you complete your vows. Like mine.” He pulls out a small blue eye of his own from the front pocket of his suit jacket, then slips it back inside. “I gave you the Locke one earlier than I should’ve, but that’s one benefit of being the boss.”

  “It’ll be our secret,” I say, and examine the door.

  He may be breaking the rules for me, but it just confirms he’s a rulebreaker. I wonder if the key I’m holding is Dad’s.

  I don’t see a lock, nothing to fit the blue eye into. The knob and door are smooth gold metal.

  “Over there,” Bronson says, and taps the brass plate of House Locke. “Touch it with the key.”

  “You’re the expert.”

  When I touch it and a fingertip to the surface, the nameplate rotates and I jump backward. Bronson laughs.

  “Funny,” I say.

  “It was,” he says.

  I focus on the backside of the plate. It’s a smooth surface, except for a single oblong opening at the bottom. “This time, I got it,” I say, and insert the eye inside. As it clicks into place, the glass eye vanishes. The door releases without a sound. My dad has done this who knows how many times? My mom’s probably been in here too.

  And now me.

  I wait for it to spit the key back out.

  “You can only get it back when we leave, and close the door,” he says.

  I have no clue what the reliquary will be like since Bronson shot my crypt concept down. Maybe it’ll be like a bank room filled with safety deposit box after safety deposit box. Or a library (since that’s what we’re in), with drawer after card catalogue drawer, and shelf after shelf of books. Maybe it’ll be like a museum, all exhibit-style glass cases. It could be like a really eccentric hoarder’s attic.

  I take a breath and step inside, and discover the family reliquary is like all of those things. The deep, tall chamber before me is packed with stuff, some that’s been organized and the rest seemingly not.