by Gwenda Bond
I can’t help smiling. “Yes?”
She answers in a low rush. “I have a thing for Tam.”
“You should have told me. For how long?”
She considers. “Long. But I understand the friend code. It doesn’t matter.” She lowers her voice even more. “It’s just suddenly he’s paying attention to me. But you should know, I’m not going to act on it.”
“Don’t be stupid. You should if you want.” She gives me a disbelieving look and it’s my turn to shake my head. “I don’t own him, Bree. The two of us are friends. Just friends.”
The perfect arches of her eyebrows lift. “But didn’t you kiss the other night?”
I’ve almost forgotten about that kiss. I figure Tam has too. “Did he tell you about that?”
“No,” she says, hesitant. “I saw it. The sages showed me.”
Now that is a surprise. “Really?” She nods. “I wonder why they would show you that. Anyway, it was just the two of us confirming there’s nothing more. Too bad they didn’t show you the conversation afterward.”
“You’re sure?” she asks. “Absolutely?”
“You should be with whoever you want. You deserve that. Tam’s a good person, and I couldn’t have been what he needs. You could be anything to anyone. You know that, right?”
Bree swallows. “Don’t you dare get yourself killed tonight,” she says, pulling me into a hug. “That’s all that matters to me. The rest of this will work itself out. Besides, Justin’s kind of cute too.”
I accept the hug, but when I push back, I say, “I want it clear, you owe me nothing. You have already done more than anyone ever has for me. Ever. You should be with whoever you want.” I try to imagine her with Justin and can’t quite do it. But her and Tam, I can see them together like it’s already a fact.
She nods, green eyes shining with tears I don’t want her to shed. So I steer us back into the living room together, only to discover one of our number is missing. “Where’s Oz?” I ask.
“Went out back to get some air,” Justin says, without looking up from the page he’s working on.
Bree picks up a pencil and bends beside him to sketch in a shape on his diagram of the Great Hall.
Sitting down beside Tam, I lean into his ear. “I have four words for you: don’t screw this up.” When he feigns confusion, I tilt my head toward Bree and Justin. “No wait, four more: don’t wait too long.”
Tam nods. “Got it.”
He rises under the guise of checking out the drawing, neatly inserting himself between Justin and Bree. Once the three of them are consumed with a conversation about the tight timing we’ll be up against, I go in search of Oz.
While events like, say, the impending apocalyptic not-apocalypse might free me from the requirement to have this conversation, I need to acknowledge that the music has been playing this whole long day. The music has been waiting for me to face it. What I did to Oz can’t be out there unresolved. I might not be deserving of his forgiveness, or who knows? I might. I don’t expect it, but I do need to apologize. Selfish or not, I can’t take Oz’s help now without an attempt to fix the static between us.
I expect to find him watching as Anzu wheels around above the house. But he’s not looking up into the darkening sky. Because Anzu has seen fit to roost in the backyard – fenced, luckily, to prevent panicked neighbors. They stare at each other, into each other, like two equals coming to an agreement.
Which is, of course, silly. Anzu is on assignment and he’s a god. Oz is a boy and on a mission. Sure, there are commonalities, but not as many as it might appear. A boy and a god are as far apart as any two creatures are, when one has magic and the other has borrowed magic and only sometimes.
Because I can, and it’s easier than my actual task, I walk across the lawn and past Oz, stopping at Anzu’s side. He continues to stare at Oz with liquid gold eyes, as if I’m not even there.
“Let me see it,” I say, and nudge Anzu’s wing, where it covers the gash on his side. He grumbles, low in his throat, but it’s half-hearted compared to the earlier protests. I am far more alarmed by the sound of Oz’s sword singing through the air.
“Don’t,” I say.
He balances gleaming metal in front of him like some warrior who stepped out of the past. Before I can stop myself, I add, “Though, it is a good look.”
I hear his sniff, but I’m too busy bending to check Anzu’s wound. He’s lifted his wing to show me the spot after all. There’s hardly a trace of it left. He’s healing.
“Good,” I say.
He lowers his wing.
When I turn, Oz’s sword is on the grass beside him. He sits, leaning on his hands with his legs sprawled out in front of him.
“What if he was going to eat me?” I ask.
“I was going to watch,” he tosses back.
“Nice.” I roll my eyes, and approach him. Slow, wary. I sink down sideways, my legs crossed, between Anzu and Oz. I want to be able to see both of them.
“What is this?” he asks. “Why would you need me to like you when you have a smitten monster?”
“I don’t want a monster.” I wish I could reel it back in. Too much truth.
“He might be more useful, given what we have in front of us.”
“This isn’t about that. I wanted you to know…” I stop. I don’t know how to explain.
“Give me your best excuse. I’m waiting.”
I glance at him. The way his head tilts back, so he can study the first few stars – or planets, I’m never sure – is maddening. He’s barely listening. So I do it again. I go for too much truth. Anything else seems like a waste, at this point.
“Oz, in the past few days, I’ve found out everything I believe about who I am is a lie. Or most of it, anyway.” I grab a handful of grass in one hand and it anchors me, because otherwise I feel like I’m hovering above my own body, that I’ve climbed out of my skin. I shouldn’t say anything else, but I keep talking. “I still don’t know what the truth is. I don’t know who I really am, who I was meant to be, or who I’m going to be now. I never had anyone I could count on. Except, it turns out, Bree. But even then, I expected her to run on me. I expect everyone to, because, well, if the people who are required to care about you aren’t able to show up, then why on earth would anyone else? So, I did what I’ve always done. I pulled my secrets in close and I got through these days as best I could. I know I used you, but I hated that. I want you to know how much I hated it.”
Oz is silent. He’s silent for so long I give up on any response. I put my other hand down, to press myself up to my feet. Anzu doesn’t make a peep. When I look over to make sure he’s still there, I find he isn’t.
Oz’s hand lifts, his finger pointing up at the sky. “He left, as soon as you started talking.” He still doesn’t look at me. “I hated it more,” he says.
He gives me a grin I don’t quite know him well enough to interpret, eyes a dark shine in the night as he turns toward me. My breath catches in my throat and I am certain something is about to happen.
“Guys,” Bree calls, “better get back in here.”
Neither of us moves right away. Oz does first, and I breathe out, soft to conceal my disappointment. He picks up his sword, sheathes it, and extends his hand. I let him help me to my feet. As I’m doing it, I understand I’ve never accepted help from anyone as willingly as I do him. Dreaded conversation over or not, he still frightens me.
“The person you can always count on,” Oz says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The sound of the revels is loud enough that the muted mix of singing and laughing and fireworks reaches us before we’re anywhere close to the Jefferson, the Capitol, and the Mall beyond. If we had to close our eyes, we could navigate there based on the low roar of people unaware of the danger they’re in. I envy their ability to indulge in a night when magic feels close, but safe.
We each have our marching orders, and they mean that we’ll only be a group – or, at least, we’re
only guaranteed to be – for a few more minutes. But we don’t chatter nervously. We are all lost in our own mental preparations.
I am dressed identically to Oz and Justin, like I’m a Society girl, a good little soldier. My hair is gathered in a low ponytail. I even have my stripes on, though I’ve assured Oz I don’t plan to use them. At least, not on him. I’d rather be wearing the T-shirt Dad left me. That feels more like armor, and I need armor for this. It’s a battle. To pretend otherwise is a lie.
Tam and Bree also sport navy, but regular clothes instead of uniforms. No one will be fooled into thinking they are Society, except possibly from a distance. No one needs to. The only thing I feel good about, traveling through the warm summer evening toward the hardest night of my life, toward near-certain defeat, toward my father’s death (if I don’t manage to do the impossible), is that Tam and Bree’s roles should keep them out of harm’s way during the worst of this. The only person I’m willing to risk this time, really, is myself. Oz and Justin will be closer to the action, but what can happen tonight and what can’t is clear in my head. I know what I can bear to let go of, and what must be protected.
Oh, how I wish I knew where my mother is.
We aren’t able to access more relics before the ritual, which means we have a severe limit on resources for stopping it. There’s a guard posted at Bronson’s house, and another at the hall the secret passage connects to. We have to rely on ourselves and what we have on us.
The street ahead begins to clog with more not-a-worry-in-their-head people, meandering toward the revels. I am struck again with envy. I want an empty head and a calm heart. We pause at the place where the street meets another, where we have to split up.
I nod to Bree and Tam. “You guys take care,” I say. “Beware of revelers.”
“Good luck to you,” Tam says.
“Don’t break a leg. Or anything else,” Bree says. “We’ll see you soon. Very soon.”
“If not, we’ll have bigger trouble than broken bones,” Justin adds.
He takes off first, his path between buildings obscured. Bree and Tam go in the opposite direction, toward the clamor and chaos of the revels. Once the crowd absorbs them, I take Vidarr’s shoe from my backpack and slip it over my boot. With the night and the buzz of the revels, no one on the street notices when I disappear.
Or when Oz takes my hand, and does the same. His presence helps me feel slightly calmer.
The sense of something stretched out between us from earlier in the backyard lingers.
With the relic, we’re able to approach the Jefferson without having to worry about anyone spotting us. When we reach the fountain, Poseidon ruling over the sidewalk, we meet a line of Society guards on horseback riding toward the Mall. They don’t even blink as we make for the Jefferson’s front entrance. Oz is one of the operatives assigned to a post at the main door. He will be seen, briefly, and take care of the others. Assuming all goes well, Bronson’s orders that no one be let in will be quickly and quietly overthrown.
We’re in a countdown now, hoping that all the pieces will end up where we want them to. But it’s hard to feel confident, given that so far I’ve been a chess piece moved around a board I wasn’t even aware I was on. Legba’s pawn.
Close to the top of the stairs, I release Oz’s hand. He strides out of the shadows and the rest of the way to the top, through the first of the three massive stone arches. A voice greets him. “You’re late, golden boy.”
I wait on the stairs below, unseen, and count.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
At five, Oz ducks out of the shadows and waves for me to come forward.
“That didn’t take long,” I say to him, finding his hand when I reach the top, so he’ll be concealed again.
The two Society guards who were at their posts lay flat against the stone, unconscious. We are banking that the tricksters are inside already. That’s why we left our own arrival to the party so late.
“Training,” Oz says. Then, “After you,” sweeping his free hand to the lone open entrance.
“I don’t suppose I can talk you into going to help Justin and let me handle this part solo,” I say, because it’s worth a shot.
“That’s not what we agreed on,” Oz says. “Get used to the fact that tonight you’ll have whatever you need from me. You won’t have to do this alone.”
“Oz, I don’t know what to say. If this doesn’t go well…”
“Speechless.” Oz teases me. “That means I win. We didn’t factor in a delay, so in we go.”
He’s right. There’s no time for last words. We slip inside the cool, dim building, taking a turn to the left as we already agreed. We intend to approach the Great Hall slowly and from one side, toward the back of it, instead of barreling straight on ahead. While we glimpse shapes and forms within it, I stick with the strategy we planned and don’t look too closely. Even though no one should sense our presence while we’re protected by the relic, caution is the wisest course here. We need to know what we’re walking into.
As we navigate between speckled marble walls, the pinprick electric lights and overhead fixtures wink once and die. “Power outage,” I murmur.
“And there’s the first thing we didn’t plan for,” Oz says.
There’s no natural light coming in at this hour, and so we grope forward in the near dark. When we reach the agreed-upon spot, Oz whirls to face me, planting his feet to stop me from plunging ahead. The backup gaslights kick in, flickering, illuminating the scene in front of us.
“Dad!” I shout without intending to. Good thing the relic stops anyone from hearing me.
When I try to rush forward, Oz steps behind me and holds me lightly in place. “Look first,” he says. “Like we agreed.”
It’s hard to stick with taking things slow and smart given what’s before us. Dad lies prone in the middle of the zodiac, directly over the brass sun. The irony that this is the door truly hits me. The Society is supposed to keep the light burning to hold the dark at bay. That’s why they call themselves the Society of the Sun. But this in front of me? This is pure darkness.
Dad isn’t shackled, but thick, knotted ropes twined over each wrist and ankle bind him. They are secured beneath heavy brick-sized pieces of metal laid on top of the patterned marble. The rope and the metal are most likely relics. He stares up at the ceiling high overhead.
I whisper. “How long do we have?”
Until the clock strikes midnight, I mean. Oz gives the answer I’m afraid of, “Not very.”
At least our concealment seems to be holding. That or the gods are too absorbed in waiting for the big moment to notice.
Bronson stands to one side of Dad, a leather case sitting at his feet that I’m certain contains the Was scepter. He wears his usual suit, slick and relaxed like always. Oz assured me that he wouldn’t risk wearing a protective relic given what he’s told the gods they’re here for. He won’t need one. No doubt they’ll be on board when they discover the truth. It benefits them more than anyone else. I think back to my grandfather’s mad insistence he will fix everything right after, raise the walls and put the gods to sleep, return us to the too-bright past just as it was.
True to what Oz heard, besides Dad and Bronson there are only members of the Tricksters’ Council in attendance. They’d never miss a blood sacrifice – this is probably like the good old eons as far as they’re concerned. I’m thankful Oz forced me to look before leaping as I take in the full scene. Even if every move we make goes exactly the way we want (which it won’t), we are fighting fate. I am reminded that these beings are as old as time itself.
Set, in this up to his canine throat, is front and center, not three feet away from Bronson and Dad. On the other side of the grand space, Hermes leans against a column, as if he’s lazing in his own private Grecian temple. Coyote wears his oversized animal form, sitting on his haunches beside an alcove with a bust of Thomas Jefferson inside. His face
contains the same wary intelligence as always. Coyote is no one’s fool. Past him, Tezcatlipoca might be a living mountain resting on marble. And Loki is half-wrapped around a feminine statue, leering at it.
Enki lingers near the entrance, not coming in and making himself at home like the others. He must have arrived right after we did. His horns are the barest inches from the tall arches above him. I’m aware how he hides his full nature, how the abzu could contain all this, plus a dozen copies of it and then some.
But he’s not giving away the unconscious – and frozen by Oz’s stripes – guards outside. Maybe he will be on our side. That’s one thing we weren’t able to assume. He let the Society remove Dad from Enki House, and the exact nature and limits of Anzu’s dedication to guarding me remain unclear.
In fact, Anzu not showing up here doesn’t surprise me as much as the fact there’s no sign of Legba. He’s not going to skip the show he’s taken such care to orchestrate. He must be who the rest are waiting for, since no one else but Set and Bronson know what a strict schedule they have to stick to.
The frenetic pitch of the revels in the distance rises in volume. Tick, tick, tick until solstice…
A fake sacrifice about to happen on the Mall, a real one set for in here.
“How much faith do you have in the plan?” I ask.
“Not enough to wait for them,” Oz said. “We can’t.”
“That’s what I figured. So this is going to be interesting,” I say.
“What is?” Oz asks.
In answer, I shrug off my backpack and kick off the shoe – we agreed in advance it would be more dangerous to risk the gods striking out at something without knowing what – then duck under Oz’s arm. I stroll into the gas lit get-together like I’m holding an invitation.
None of them react right away. I have the element of surprise on my side, and I go straight for Dad. Dropping to my knees, I wince as they hit the marble, but reach for the knots on his wrist. I gasp at the burn of the rope when my fingers touch it. I’m forced to let go.
Dad blinks up at me. The cuts on his cheek from the trial are scabbed over an angry red. “Kyra… No.” He pours such anguish into one word. Here I thought he might be a fraction happy to see me, even if it’s one last time. He closes his eyes, but then he reopens them and speaks in a rush. “You have to get out of here. You can’t be here. It’s not… It’s unsafe for you. William, please do me one favor and get her out of here.”