by Gwenda Bond
I’d bet anything he’s wearing some kind of invisibility relic too. Vidarr’s shoe can’t be the only one around.
Which means no one will report anything except two gods tussling. It’ll make the Skeptics’ next eyewitness column. But no one will see the head of the Society in the middle of it. And no one is coming to help me.
“Kyra,” Bronson says, “I’m not upset with you. I’d have done the same thing. That’s obvious. But I am going to need my relic back.”
That’s why he and Dad are so different. Why they hate each other, I realize. Bronson’s not upset with me, because he only cares about one thing. He only cares about himself.
“Good girl,” Bronson says, because I have stopped struggling. There’s no way to, with how he’s holding me. I’m pinned, stuck, captured. “This will all be over soon enough. I have plans.” He’s speaking with an urgency I can’t quite understand, as he pulls out a knife and cuts the Was out of the strap. He shoves me away, and removes the T-shirt from the headpiece. He stares at it reverently.
“Plans to picnic by the firelight of the world going up in flames?” I ask. “What will keep the gods from killing you? Have you thought about that?”
“Besides the fact I’ll be their favorite person, before they start trying to burn the Society?” Bronson shrugs. Smiles. He pets the head of the staff. “Your father has a death sentence for treason already. Now I have the scepter back, and no one saw me take it. In fact, everyone saw me presiding over a meeting when it disappeared. I’ll be the only Society member at the execution. It’s time for me to play everyone else the way we played you, Kyra.”
The way we played you. Him and Legba.
“You gave me the stripes so I’d use them,” I say. “All those grandfatherly talks were bull too?”
“I gave you everything I thought you’d need. Well done on stealing my key. That I didn’t even know until I got it back.”
“But why does it have to be Dad?”
“Henry’s the only person who wouldn’t let me out of this alive. That means it has to be him. I hope you can forgive me, when this is all over. You have to understand. I need to see Gaby. To talk to her. Find out why she did it. This time, she’ll stay. We’ll rebuild the world.”
“Blood and doom,” I tell him. “That’s what Mom says comes with that ritual, with Dad’s death. Blood and doom.”
“No. I’ll be a hero. Believe me. As soon as I have Gaby back, I’ll end this. I’ll raise the walls and put them all back to sleep. You’ll see. I’m not a bad man, Kyra. Everything will be put to rights.”
Anzu falls to the ground beside us, hard. There’s a red gash along his side, gushing blood. His golden eyes fight, then drift closed.
“He’s not dead.” Legba lands beside us. He wipes his walking stick clean with the tail of his jacket. He doesn’t even appear rumpled. “Just… sleeping for a while.”
Bronson narrows his eyes, as if he’s concerned Legba might have heard something he said to me. I could tell Legba about his crazy claim he intends to “raise the walls” – whatever that means – and put the gods back to sleep, but the last part is the only sane-ish idea Bronson’s had. Legba is clearly no friend of mine. Besides, how can it be true? I think this is part and parcel of Bronson’s evil genius. Self-justification. He believes he can do anything. By hell and company, maybe he can turn their lights out. Who knows? So I keep quiet on the matter.
“You lied to me–” I direct that to Legba.
“Shush,” Legba says, grinning, “don’t talk to your grandfather that way.” He must know I wasn’t. “The clock’s still going and we’d best be on our way.”
I move over beside Anzu. His sides shift up and down in a slow rhythm that tells me Legba isn’t lying about him, at least. He will wake up.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say. “You’re the monsters.”
“Oh, sorry, you weren’t invited. I meant we, as in, the two of us.” Legba gestures to himself and Bronson. “Sorry if that wasn’t clear. You are fun to have around, but…”
Bronson gives me a sympathetic, regretful look. So easy for him to conjure those, I never should have trusted a one of them. He says, “I can’t bring you back with us, because it’s better if people are occupied with looking for you. You’ve proven yourself too resourceful. In another day, this will all be over, and I’ll welcome you with open arms. In the meantime, you stay safe out here, OK?”
“Like you care,” I say.
“That’s the strangest thing…” Legba speaks as he puts a hand on my grandfather’s elbow. “He does. We’ll be seeing you, Kyra Locke. Not sooner, but later.”
In another blink the two of them are gone. It’s just me and my unconscious monster and a few gaping coachmen on the street. I stumble across the intersection to the ticket window, but the red and white bulbs flick out. The men shake their heads, shut doors, disappear inside buildings. I could go to the bar, but the waitress doesn’t deserve this added to her tab. Even if she’d consider it.
I make my way back to Anzu’s side. I sink to my knees beside him and bury my face in his matted mane, and I weep like my father is already dead.
He may as well be. I’ve already failed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Justin Pearson hears the front door slam and rushes out of his bedroom. He’s been waiting for hours to talk to Oz, the suspicions boiling in his brain like water in a pot. Like pages from books set ablaze, edges crinkling and disappearing in the heat. Like… He needs to talk to Oz or he’s going to come up with even worse metaphors.
What he knows – or what he believes he’s discovered – has made him jittery. He pounds down the stairs, only to slow at the bottom.
Ann is at the door, her hand on Oz’s arm. Oz’s expression is… dark. Darker than Justin has seen it in a long time. There’s a uniformed operative with him, which is even odder.
Justin found the note his friend left for Ann before she did, about how he and Henry Locke’s daughter were going out for a stroll. He doubted it was true – fresh air, after all, is overrated – but couldn’t imagine why a cover story would be needed. Oz isn’t stupid.
Nonetheless, maybe Oz did something stupid.
Earlier in the evening, the phone rang and Ann picked it up. Justin lingered at the office door to listen in, beginning to worry that they hadn’t made it back yet. From her troubled murmurs of response and frown of concern afterward, he picked up that Oz and Kyra were somewhere they shouldn’t be. Wherever it was apparently is bad enough to get Oz sent home with an escort who isn’t Bronson. For that matter, where is Kyra?
Justin has bitten his tongue since they met her. Oz won’t listen to anything he doesn’t want to. He never has. But Justin can’t quite trust her.
“I’ll keep him right here, under lock and key,” Ann tells the operative at the door.
His name is not one Justin has ever bothered to remember. The operative narrows his eyes as if she lost Oz once and so can’t be trusted. But he nods. “Good evening, ma’am,” he says, and leaves them.
Ann turns Oz to face her. “What were you thinking? You could have been hurt. Both of you.”
Oz takes the abuse, stands there and accepts it. Which Justin can’t stomach.
“He’s not your son,” Justin informs Ann. “You don’t need to mother him. Oz, can I talk to you?”
Ann drops her hands and shoots them both looks that are darker than the one Oz wears. Justin has to stop himself from apologizing to her.
“No dinner for either of you,” she says. “And don’t even consider sneaking out. If something happens to that poor girl…”
At that, Oz snorts. “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble, Ann. But she doesn’t need your sympathy. She’s doing fine.”
Ann is troubled by this, but also softens at Oz’s acknowledgment that he put her in a tough spot. “I’ll bring up a snack. But no dinner.”
Now Justin is almost more curious about Oz’s story than sharing what he’s uncovered. Potentially
uncovered. And only almost more curious.
“Come with me,” Justin says, and indicates the stairs.
Oz does, that blank darkness on his face lingering all the way up them. Justin peers over his shoulder to check. He lets Oz into his room, all shelves and books and a desk covered in sheets of paper. It’s the only place Justin ever feels at home these days.
“Bad day?” Justin asks.
“You could say that.” Oz flops onto his back on Justin’s bed. “She tricked me. Let me think I was helping her and showed me up like I’m some green operative.” Oz shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“You are some green operative,” Justin says.
“Not helpful.”
“I know something that might be,” Justin says it with care. He doesn’t want to overpromise. But he realizes he might be framing it incorrectly and tries again. “It will make everything worse, though, if I’m right.”
Oz is quiet for a long stretch, and Justin assumes he’s considering whether he wants another problematic thing to deal with. This all started when they went along on the seizure operation for Henry Locke, at Enki House. The sage showed Justin a book in Bronson’s office, a book that Bronson was hiding there. A journal logging top secret deliberations, it turns out. Justin found it in the exact spot the vision showed Bronson stowing it, behind a collection of reference volumes for relics that rarely show up on this side of the world. In other words, where it would never be accidentally found… and where it wasn’t supposed to be kept. But also not in such an obscure location that the hiding would be perceived as intentional if it were found. An oversight, a mistake. Where Bronson placed the book would make any accusation he’s concealing it an easy thing to deny.
No one would be looking for it on a regular basis. These are the kinds of records that would be referred to, say, when a new Society head takes over.
Oz still hasn’t made up his mind and answered. Justin will have to prod him to a decision. “Oz,” he asks, “Did Kyra by any chance try to steal the relic? The Solstice Was?”
Oz sits up. He wears a grin so sharp it cuts. He’s angry. “Ann told you, didn’t she? I don’t need the knife twisted. Trust me.”
“No,” Justin says. “No one told me. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“She did steal it,” Oz says. The grin is gone. He seems exhausted in its absence. But also still angry. “Wherever she is, she has it. And it’s my fault. They might kick me out for this. They should.”
Justin knows better than anyone how lost Oz would be without the Society. “No. Bronson won’t do that. He’ll understand.”
“Maybe,” Oz says. “Now, what is this mysterious thing about her that you’re telling me?”
Justin considers. It might be best if he kept it to himself. He doesn’t want to put Oz in a bad position. A worse one. Oz avoided saying her name just now.
Oz climbs to his feet. “Don’t you dare protect me. Tell me what it is.”
“OK,” Justin agrees. Though he doesn’t feel as sure as he did before. He pulls out his big leather notebook and hands it to Oz, holding it open to the page where he copied the text. “Read this.”
Oz frowns, but takes it and scans the lines. He’s still frowning when he looks up at Justin. “What does it mean?” he asks.
“Think,” Justin says.
Oz shakes his head. “I’m too tired. You’re the one who does that better anyway. Just tell me.”
“Fine. It’s a record of the deliberations among the board after the Awakening, about what emergency actions they should take.”
“I gathered that much. Five people involved, right?”
“To prevent possible ties during voting,” Justin says.
One of the people in the meeting was his mother. He misses her. But his dad, well, his dad has issues with a son that prefers the library to the battle. He’s better off here.
“So?” Oz asks. “Everyone was in agreement, right? Seal the doors, then make a display of the most powerful god we could capture. That’s what they did.”
“Yes and no.” Justin begins to worry he’s leapt too far. If Oz doesn’t see it… But he goes on. “There was one person arguing against closing the doors to the Heavens and the Afterlife. The board split in two, as you know – half of them taking care of one door, and the rest the other.”
“In secret locations known only to them, for safety. Yes, I know. What am I missing? Who was arguing against it and why?”
Oz had skimmed the copied down text, instead of reading it. It would have saved some time if he’d just told Justin that. But Justin thinks of Oz waiting while he makes a mess of target practice with his bow, patiently giving Justin time to improve… some… and he pushes aside his frustration. They each have their strengths.
“William Bronson,” Justin says, keeping his voice down, as if the walls can see and hear. When, if the walls could, he’d already be busted for the time he’s spent rooting around in Bronson’s office.
“What are you saying?” Oz asks, but Justin can tell by his tone that he’s made the same jump.
“That maybe Henry Locke took the relic, but his motives were more complicated. Maybe he intended to foil a plot.”
Oz asks, “Why not accuse Bronson then? And why would he take the fall after all that?”
“I don’t know,” Justin says. “That’s the part I was hoping you could help with. You’re the one who understands people.”
“No, I’m not,” Oz says. “What would we do about it, if you’re right?”
“I don’t know that either. I just… I expected you to know what we should do.”
Oz closes his eyes for a long moment. Finally, he opens them. “It might not matter. Kyra has the scepter. She took off with it. Gods only know where she is by now. And she has Vidarr’s shoe.”
“Too powerful to keep wearing for very long,” Justin observes. By the sudden lift of Oz’s head, he can tell that’s news to his friend. Oz really should study more. “She’d go to her friends, wouldn’t she?” Justin asks.
Oz shrugs a single shoulder. “They were at the Jefferson… Maybe she arranged for them to be there, but I got the impression they didn’t know where she was.”
“Interesting,” Justin says.
“Moderately,” Oz admits, grudgingly. “What was Bronson’s argument back then?”
“Now that is interesting. He was a proponent of the argument that we shouldn’t risk antagonizing the gods. That he should be sent as an envoy to negotiate, before the emergency protocols were undertaken.”
“But no one thought mediation would work,” Oz says. “The gods are too powerful. We saw that immediately.”
“I’m so proud,” Justin holds a hand to his heart, “you did read something.”
“Hilarious.”
“The transcript is telling,” Justin says, “but it’s not enough. It’s not proof. He might have just held a different view.”
“But he knows, doesn’t he? Where the Afterlife door is?”
Justin nods. “It doesn’t explain why, though. Why he disagreed back then, why he’d do this now. Any clue from the trial today?”
“None,” Oz says, “and I was there. All we have is a theory.”
“You know what we do with a theory,” Justin says, already pushing his notebook into a leather messenger bag.
“Humor me,” Oz says. His tone is dry, more like normal.
Justin was right to tell him. That’s a relief. Not that what’s ahead of them is going to be easy. The dark might be gone for now, but that doesn’t mean it’s been replaced by light. In Justin’s experience, the lesson of history is that darkness is never far away. And it is never easily dealt with.
“We prove or disprove it,” Justin says.
“That’s what we do,” Oz agrees. Then, “How?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Morning finds me and Anzu sacked out a few feet apart in the alley behind the church. Sleep was fitful, not so shocking considering the arra
ngements. I had the presence of mind to use my backpack as a pillow, and it turns out an injured god throws off a lot of heat. A fire would have made less.
The night before, after Anzu roused, weak, I pulled myself together enough to realize we had to get out of the middle of the road. The last thing we need is pictures of a girl and her monster circulating or rumors about the same (more than there already will be). I considered putting on Vidarr’s shoe, but the idea of it made me too tired to move Anzu.
And that’s what had to happen. I tried helping him up by pushing under his wing. I was beyond worried about the wound, which was not healing, not even closing. But, after his golden eyes reopened from the pain of my messing around with his wing, I decided on a different strategy. I walked away from him.
I made it three steps before I looked back and found him struggling to his clawed feet. He shook his wings and his head, and came after me. He was listing to one side, but steady enough. I managed to lead him to our resting spot.
But now day has broken, and the god has yet to awaken. I stand and lean over – cautiously, because I’m under no illusion that we’re suddenly best friends – to check out Anzu’s side.
I experience a wave of dismay. The gash Legba left him with continues to ooze blood. The pavement beneath him is soaked a deep crimson from it, as if we completed a messy sacrifice back here during the night. The gash has pulled wide enough that the edges are visible despite the plumage that would normally hide them. Anzu’s skin is not fragile baby stuff. There’s no putting stitches in this guy, and he’s already lost more blood than would be possible for any non-divine creature to survive.
And that’s the question, isn’t it? Why isn’t his magic taking care of it? I’d expect a god’s mutant healing factor to be off the charts. Any god’s.
I am keenly aware I need to get moving, get back to the city by whatever means are available, and figure out something to do next. As out of it as Anzu is, slipping away from his guard duty wouldn’t be so hard. The guys from the night before might not recognize me in the daylight. I could get a ticket on the first coach back in. Saturday’s a light schedule, but it’s a holiday. People should be chomping to go to the city for the big solstice revels on the Mall tonight. I have to hope whatever transport there is can get me there fast enough. I need to warn Mom which team Legba is on, and Dad doesn’t have much time left.