The Woken Gods

by Gwenda Bond

There’s a tentative rap on the doorjamb. It’s still open, of course. Until we leave, Bronson said. He brushes his hand under his eyes. I touch the arm of his jacket. “Thank you for telling me.”

  He gives me a nod. “Come in,” he says, louder.

  The woman who was in Bronson’s office the other day, sleek Rose, leads in Oz and Justin. Oz raises his hand in a small wave. “3.30,” Rose says. “We went by your reliquary first…”

  “Which we didn’t even make it to. Good thing we’ve got all the time we need, right, Kyra?”

  Bronson steps out from under my hand, but he pats my shoulder. Any sign of the affected man who was telling me the saddest story of his life is gone like that. In a snap.

  He hesitates, says, “Would you like to see your father?”

  I picture Dad yelling at me more. I can’t tell him anything, so… “No. I don’t think I can.”

  Bronson nods. “I want it to be your decision.”

  “It is.”

  “I have to go to a meeting with Rose,” he says. “Will you be alright with Oz and Justin? They’ll get you back to the house, and I will be home in time for supper.”

  “Sure,” I say. “This is my new life. Weird. See you at supper.”

  I can tell Oz wants to stay in here and pore over the hunter’s map, look at the Locke family’s cool stuff. “You can come back sometime,” I tell him as I pass. “I might even let you touch my things.”

  That didn’t come out right. He gives me a grin that lets me know he got both my actual meaning and the unintended one. I stare straight ahead, not wanting to blunder into anything as we make our way to the door.

  That smile of his is way too good.

  Justin says, “I’d love to come go through your books.”

  “For the record,” Oz says, low enough my grandfather doesn’t hear and interrupt whatever he and Rose are talking about to disapprove. “I don’t care about your books.”

  I have to be blushing. This is ridiculous. The rest of them exit first, which I take is the usual procedure.

  “You can figure out how to seal it,” Bronson says, waiting.

  I hope so, because they’re all watching me and it’ll be embarrassing if I don’t. I finally decide to try pressing my hand against the pad. The blue eye shoots into my palm and the door zips closed, the plate reversing so it shows House Locke again.

  “Like you were born to it,” Bronson says.

  He shows no sign of worrying that the others know I have the key. I put it back in my pocket and try not to feel as pleased as I do about the compliment.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Rose and Bronson disappear up the long marble hallway, leaving me to stand awkwardly with Oz and Justin.

  I touch Justin’s shoulder with a fingertip. He looks at my finger like I’m in the process of stabbing him. I say, “I know you’re thinking, ‘Please open your crypt back up so I can check out your magical books.’”

  Justin says, “I was not.” Though the longing way he glances at the door makes it hard to buy.

  Grinning, Oz says, “He’s definitely thinking it. If he wasn’t before, he is now.” But his grin slips away. “Are you sure you don’t want to see your dad?”

  None of them have told me about the trial. I’m waiting to see if they will.

  “No,” I say, “but it feels like the right answer. It would be too hard. He won’t approve of me being here.”

  “But wouldn’t you enjoy that part, the disapproval?”

  “Normally, yes, though it disturbs me that you know that. This time? Not so much.” After all, we’re talking about me seeing him because we’ve already established the penalty for treason. And the conviction rate. I happen to know that he’s only not going to meet that fate because I plan to save him.

  Which means it’s not at all certain he’ll survive.

  I will see him again though. I can’t imagine not. But I can put it off, a little while longer.

  “I want to see your crypt,” I say.

  Oz rolls his eyes. Attractively, of course. “It’s not a crypt,” he says.

  “Your reliquary. The reliquary of House Spencer. I bet it’s fancy.” The request is a whim. But I do want to find out what it reveals about Society Boy Wonder. He’s so comfortable here, in these serious marble halls and outside of them.

  “No fancier than House Locke’s,” he says.

  “Let’s do it,” Justin says. “I can revisit the text on the Apkallu you have.”

  “Seven sages put something in your head?” Oz asks, and begins to walk. To me, he explains, “That’s another name for them.”

  “I’ll never catch up to all the stuff you guys know.” Good thing I won’t have to.

  We are the only people down here, now that Bronson and Rose are gone. I’m about fifty thousand worlds more comfortable without gossipy operatives giving us the constant eyeball.

  “Sure, you will,” Oz says. “If you want to.”

  “You know they did,” Justin says, ignoring our side conversation. “They put stuff in yours too.”

  “Care to share?” I ask.

  “No,” they answer in tandem.

  “Interesting.” If I’m not mistaken Oz shoots Justin a warning look. But Justin doesn’t catch it because he’s looking guiltily away. “Verrrry interesting.”

  Of course, I don’t volunteer to talk about what I saw either. The vision of Dad crying feels almost as if it was a dream.

  Nothing more is said until we’re at Oz’s reliquary, because it turns out not to be much further. He takes a blue eye from his pocket. “We always keep these on us,” he tells me, and opens the door with far less drama than I did ours. The sigil of House Spencer is a sword surrounded in flame.

  “Come in,” Oz says.

  Justin strides through first, like he hardly needs the invite.

  “I meant Kyra,” Oz says, but Justin doesn’t bother with a response.

  I have to stop myself from telling Oz to not say my name anymore. Because what could I possibly say that would be weirder? Or that would give away how much I like hearing him say it. This is trouble, and I know it. Luckily, it can go nowhere. The harmless variety of trouble.

  “Funny seeing you dressed like this.” Oz takes in my Society-esque garb, head to toe. He and Justin are wearing their uniforms, stripes and all.

  “Hilarious,” I say.

  “That’s not what I mean. You just look…”

  Oh, that hesitation is murder. I can’t take it. “Hot? Superhot? Plain navy will be what everyone’s wearing next year?”

  “You look nice,” he says, though if I’m not mistaken he considered other options.

  “We already told you, never say nice. I’ve never looked nice in my life.” It isn’t the whole truth. Mom used to put me in dainty dresses every now and then. But it’s been years since I’ve worn one. Not that someone can’t look nice in a Ramones T-shirt or whatever, but I doubt that I do. Bree’s the one of us who has that angle covered.

  “Right, I forgot,” he says, in a tone that makes me think he didn’t forget at all. “Still, that would be easier to believe if you didn’t look it right now.”

  We’re lingering in the hallway, which we both seem to notice at the same time. “Ladies first,” he says. “Especially nice looking ones.”

  “That would be me, I’m told.” I traipse past him, curious if he’s watching. So curious I look back. He is.

  He follows me in.

  “This is fancy,” I say.

  Dad must not have time to keep things as tidy, because our reliquary is way more mad aunt’s attic storage than this one. Oz’s family hunter’s map isn’t even on the wall, but on a long table alongside it. It’s a model of a city and various landscapes, progressing through different periods of architecture and kinds of terrain.

  “Wow,” I say, moving in closer to examine it. “You have to keep this up now by yourself?”

  It’s a nosy question. I’m basically asking if he’s completely alone in the world,
if that’s why Bronson’s his guardian.

  “I grew up helping my mother do it, so it’s not that hard.”

  The intricacy of the model makes me doubt that there’s anything easy about adding to it. I study a miniature gothic cathedral, every detail perfectly formed.

  “Except to get him to focus on doing it,” Justin calls, from further back. “That’s hard.” He’s at a table with a book in front of him. He doesn’t raise his blond head to look at us.

  I didn’t even notice in the Locke reliquary that the rooms are set up for the ceiling light fixtures to come on when the doors open. They’re regularly spaced and cast soft light so that no corners are too dark. Not far from us, I spot a familiar relic hanging on a headless form. A gleaming silver breastplate.

  Moving toward it, I ask, “Didn’t Bronson have this on the other day?”

  “Yes,” Oz says.

  I reach out and touch the metal. When I turn, Oz is behind me.

  “I loaned it to him,” Oz says. “We can do that. It’s pretty common, really, since other operatives know the major relics everyone else has.”

  “Does anyone ever give a relic away to another family?”

  “Not often,” Oz says. “I wouldn’t part with that one. Not permanently.”

  “He didn’t even really like loaning it,” Justin puts in, head still buried in the book.

  “Stop eavesdropping,” Oz says.

  But his tone is easy, no bite to it. Yet I’ve apparently been around him enough to see through that forced easiness.

  “What is it?” I ask, and keep my voice low.

  He keeps looking at the breastplate when he answers, though he moves closer. I guess so he can talk without Justin inserting any commentary. But Justin seems to have obeyed the order to stop listening – for the moment, at least.

  “It saved my life,” he says.

  My eyes go wide. “How?”

  He speaks just above a whisper, like we’re trading secrets. “When the gods woke up, I wasn’t here. I was still in London. My parents were headquartered there. British Library.”

  I search my memory of what I know about the Awakening, but I can’t remember anything specific about London.

  “They were… a lot like your dad, actually,” he says.

  I freeze up.

  “Heroes, I mean. The type who took action when they believed it was necessary.”

  “Don’t you think my dad committed treason?”

  “Like he was before this,” he says.

  I nod, conceding.

  “They didn’t want to leave me at home, so I was there with them. A thirteen year-old who wasn’t close to taking my vows, who had some basic training but was pretty crap at most stuff.”

  I almost wish Justin was still listening in, so he could confirm or deny this. If they even knew each other then. I can’t imagine Oz being bad at anything operative-oriented.

  He continues. “My mum stuck me in that armor breastplate. It was almost too heavy for me to stand up in. I didn’t know then, but it was a relic of Athena’s, one she’d given to a warrior she liked. But once Mum put it on me and said the words, it was weightless. She told me to be careful, to stay behind her and Dad, that it would keep me safe as long as I wore it.”

  “That was smart of her.”

  “Nothing was able to touch me,” he says. “But that was the last time I saw them. On the streets outside, fighting gods.”

  “I’m sorry.” But it doesn’t seem like enough. First, I don’t deserve this trust, these people confiding in me like it’s a natural thing to do. Second, the Society is depressingly full of tragic death stories, judging by today. It makes me worry that Dad’s not just in trouble because he’s on the prophecy track. It makes me worry that everyone here is doomed. Including me.

  Oz gives me a puzzled look. I’m not sure if it’s prompted by my silence or at the inadequacy of my offering such a generic condolence. I feel like I should add something. But all I can come up with is, “I’m truly sorry.”

  Which still isn’t enough.

  “I don’t talk about it, usually.” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “You just asked the right question, I suppose.”

  “Or you’re distracting me from my own problems, because you are nice and not just a pretty face. So, change of subject.” I lay my fingers against his stripes for a moment. Barely any space separates us and I’m aware that his chest – which I’ve seen in its unclothed glory – is under there. Too aware of it. “Tell me how this Hephaestus’ chain business works. What’s that thing you say?”

  Oz swallows. He says, “You’ll learn in time.”

  “Look. I don’t even have any stripes to use, and I’m sure it’ll be forever until I do. I’m just curious, since I got Vulcan nerve pinched by Dad.”

  “That is funny. Since Vulcan is another name for Hephaestus.” Justin is back to listening, and not ashamed to let us know it. “It’s Ancient Greek, so the command is a single verb form. It means to bind. Καταδήτε.”

  I wonder if he’s heard every word we’ve said to each other, and decide there’s nothing I can do about it if he did. Instead I attempt to repeat what he said, “Kah-ta-mumblemumble.”

  And mangle it horribly.

  Oz can’t help but smile, and I’d screw it up at least a dozen more times to keep him from thinking about his parents. He holds his hands up in front of him. “Don’t worry. I’m not touching you, so it won’t do anything. Καταδήτε. It’s kah-tah-DAY-tay,” he says it slow, and I watch his lips. “Now you try.”

  “One more time.” Really, I just want to drag this out. It’s the lightest I’ve felt all day.

  “Kah-tah-DAY-tay,” he says.

  “Kah-tah-DAY-tay,” I repeat, then once more for good measure. I bob my head along like it’s music, hair swinging in front of my face. “Kah-tah-DAY-tay.”

  “Perfect.” Oz laughs. “You’re a prodigy.”

  “Not bad,” Justin says, and claps his book shut. “OK, I’m ready to go now.”

  Oz and I exchange a look. I regret that we’re leaving. This is my only chance to learn about the Spencer family history. Then again, I only care about Oz’s part of it.

  “Me too. I’m ready to go,” I say. “Though I want to know more about the map model.”

  “Another time,” he says.

  I agree, far too aware there won’t be one.

  The rest of the day is weird. Turns out it’s rare for Oz and Justin to be home during the day. Justin decides to indulge in library time (not a surprise) in Bronson’s office, which he assures us is allowed. Though neither of us questions it.

  I worry that means I have to spend more time alone with Oz… not that the idea is all bad. But I’ve upgraded the situation from harmless. I can feel it becoming dangerous. It’s going to be hard enough to do what I have to already. None of these facts mutes the disappointment I feel when Oz says he has an errand to take care of, and will be back for dinner. The phone’s off limits until Justin leaves the office, so trying to reach Bree is out of the question. She’s probably still at school anyway.

  Before I can explore, I need to see where Ann is. I head to the kitchen.

  “Cookies?” I ask her, hope in my stomach, when I get there. She’s busy stuffing a bunch of little raw chickens (or some type of birds) with things, and nods toward the counter where Oz found them the night before. I open the case and grab one.

  “I might take a nap.” I prepare for a lecture in response.

  But Ann merely glances up. “Have you seen your new stuff? If I got the wrong things, don’t worry. Mr Bronson said to do my best and that we could add whatever you want. And we can redo your room. But he had me stop at this shop and get a bunch of posters. I’m not sure about those.” She frowns at the chicken, or whatever it is, in front of her. “I think the clerk just wanted to get rid of them.”

  I stand, cookie halfway to my mouth, disbelieving. “What are you talking about?”

  Ann’s eyes widen. She s
miles, and puts her attention on shaking some herbs into a bowl in front of her. “Nothing at all. Definitely not something waiting in your room. Because then it wouldn’t be a surprise. Would it? Now, out of here while I’m working.” She peeks up and winks. “You’re in my way.”

  Intrigued as I am to see what Bronson and Ann believe I need, I don’t go to my room first. With Justin in the office and Ann in the kitchen, I have a location for everyone in the house. So when I go upstairs, I open every door except the one to my guest room. Until I find the room that has to be Bronson’s.

  Everything neat, everything dark colors. On the chest of drawers is a picture of him and Gabrielle. It’s black and white, probably for artfulness. They both gaze into the distance, wearing safari field gear not unlike what she has on in the portrait in his office. He looks the same. Not exactly, of course. There are not quite as many wrinkles on his face in this picture, but he strikes me as just as grave. Maybe he sensed what he had to lose. There’s also a color photograph of Mom, maybe nine, face streaked with mud, and Gabrielle beside her with dirt on her hands.

  Happy families may be the most fragile kind there are.

  On that note, I rummage – but with care, shooting for spy-style exploration – through the drawers, checking out the closet, everything I can to learn the layout. I test the door, closing it and then closing it more slowly.

  It’s nearly soundless, done the right way. Good to know.

  My plan is beginning to come together, though there are still pieces missing. I’m not quite sure how well it will work. But I have to prevent the ritual, and to do that, the relic has to disappear again – and stay gone until after solstice. That was Dad’s first strategy, and so it must be a solid one. The disappearance of the relic while he’s all locked up should be enough to reopen the treason case and keep him alive a while longer. The key will be getting it, then running as fast and far as I can for a few days. I won’t make the mistake of going to a god like he did.

  I have to figure out how to slip my divine guard. When I check out Bronson’s window Anzu’s perched in the backyard, where he was the night before. He gazes up at me, and I frown at him, feeling like some president’s daughter with inconvenient Secret Service.