The Woken Gods

by Gwenda Bond

  His dad is troubled. “Tam… her father is being put to death tonight. It’s a secret punishment. We considered trying to intervene, but the Society’s justice is its own. If Henry Locke agreed to abide by their rules, we decided it wouldn’t be right to insert ourselves. We have to pick our battles. Surely her grandfather will send her away, and not let her see something like that. She’s welcome to stay with us until everything is figured out.”

  “You don’t get it,” Tam says.

  Of course, he doesn’t get it. He hasn’t known the full story, and the truth is crazy. Outrageous. “You’re going to have to be willing to intervene,” Tam explains. “All those horror stories that go around about Bronson? All the times you’ve accused him of lying, of keeping secrets that endanger the public welfare, the belief that the tricksters aren’t really on our side – you were right. And he’s about to set them free.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that he’s about to give the god Set access to the underworld, and all the others with him. I mean that the status quo is about to end, and that we’re going to see how right you have been all along.”

  His dad is already walking. “We need to get a coach. It’ll be faster.”

  “I got this,” Tam says, because he spots a carriage making as fast progress as can be through the throngs of people. A head ducks out of the window, above the station decal on the side, and Bree yells, “Move! Out! Of! The! Way!”

  Tam tows his dad toward the TV station carriage. “Hey, Bree!” he calls out.

  He knows she’s just as tense and worried as he is. Probably even more. She’s a better person, of that he has no doubt. The moment she sees him and their eyes connect, he feels a grin cut across his face. She smiles back at him, and it’s as if everything stutters.

  “Well, hurry up if you’re coming!” she shouts to them. She disappears inside and the door swings open.

  His dad climbs into the carriage with a “Hello, Nalini,” and Tam follows him. He sits down beside Bree, and discovers they are still smiling at each other. He can’t stop himself from reaching over, taking her hand in his. She doesn’t take it back.

  The carriage rattles to life, moving faster now, the driver shouting to clear the path.

  Tam holds Bree’s hand in both of his, and it’s almost like they’re alone.

  “We’re going to make it,” Bree says, for him only. Their parents are talking over one another, comparing notes and theorizing. Tam doesn’t care. He has eyes only for her. “Tell me we are,” Bree says.

  “We’re going to make it,” he says. “I promise.”

  Oz understood that Kyra was telling the truth about Legba being involved in all this, but he didn’t fully get the enormity of that until the god arrived with her mother on his arm. He glides the rest of the way into the Great Hall like this is his party. That’s because it is.

  “I like to make an entrance,” Legba says.

  “Obviously,” Kyra responds.

  Oz has to stop himself from putting her behind him. That would make her angry, and he needs to figure out what Legba’s plans are. So he stays where he is. Where are the others? They should be here by now. He has a moment of horrified wondering if Legba intercepted them, but nothing good can come of thoughts like that.

  “Henry,” Kyra’s mom says, removing her arm from the god’s.

  “Hannah,” Henry Locke says. “I’m so sorry. I failed.”

  Kyra’s mother drifts past her prone husband to Bronson. “Kill me,” she directs her plea to her father. “I’ll do just as well. Kill me.”

  “I could never do that, Hannah,” Bronson says. “I’m very sorry this is hard for you. But don’t you want to see her again?”

  She is trembling. “I can see her any time I like. In memory. That is the only place she would want me to find her. Kill me.”

  “Hannah,” Mr Locke says, insistent, “Hannah. Kyra’s here.”

  Kyra flinches as her mother’s eyes land on her. They are ringed in kohl black as night, as death. “My girl,” she says. “It was you all along. You we meant to protect.”

  “What does she mean?” Oz asks.

  “I don’t know,” Kyra says.

  Bronson hefts the scepter. They have to prevent him from winning. Oz’s parents would have never appointed him Oz’s guardian if they’d known what he was, what he was capable of. Part of his determination to stop Bronson comes from that. They trusted Bronson, and so did Oz. But it’s almost as if his parents have left him this important thing to accomplish. Losing them, being on his own, all of it has led him here. Kyra doesn’t have to face this alone, because he’s at her side. Between the two of them, they can do this, even without the others.

  He’s convinced of it. Kyra looks at him, and he wishes he could chase away the fear he sees in her face. It doesn’t belong there. She asks, “If I distract the rest of them, can you get the Was from Bronson?”

  “I can try,” Oz responds. Then, “I’ll get it or die trying.”

  “Don’t,” she says. “Don’t die.”

  Kyra’s mother is the real distraction, though. She takes two jerky steps toward Kyra, who seems unable to move. “It was you. You are the one whose blood spills here. You have to leave. My daughter.”

  “What?” Kyra asks, breathless.

  Legba laughs. “It is funny. You can’t tell someone a prophecy is about them and have them avoid it. Perhaps I miscalculated, since you are here after all, Kyra Locke. But telling you it was about your father, that he was the one who couldn’t know, that was a stroke of genius. You have to admit it.”

  Kyra’s gaze swings from Legba to her father. “That’s supposed to be me?”

  Oz wants to comfort her. He wants to kill Legba. Neither is possible at the moment.

  “I could give you the twisted, clever answer, but the truth is a basic yes,” Legba says. “You were the one meant to die here this evening. Your father has made a valiant effort to ensure he’s the one who does instead. But here you are, and prophecies have the damnedest way of coming true. Maybe you will both die. What your mother saw, what drove her mad, was your death. The ripples from our dear William Bronson’s plotting and planning led to the death of her own sweet daughter. And from there, the kaboom, the doom and the death. Not many mothers could live with that knowledge. Not and stay sane.”

  “Kill me,” her mother says again, mournfully.

  “No,” Bronson says. “No, it can’t be true.”

  Oz watches as Kyra absorbs this new information. She is stricken, as anyone would be. His worry kicks into a higher gear, because there is darkness within Kyra, the shadows she runs from, that she carries with her wherever she goes. He could detect them even from a distance, when he saw her those years before. He couldn’t understand, at first, why the sages would show him that day he saw her trying to come into the Jefferson, that day she was so upset at being turned away.

  But this week he’s gotten to know her and witness the effect of the past on her. She’s willing to put herself in danger, to risk anything, because she believes her presence here is optional, not valuable. If she can swap places with her dad? She will, in a snap, in a heartbeat, with no hesitation. Bronson might protest, but what he wants is an outcome. He’s proven more than willing to make a mess to get it.

  This is Oz’s moment. He might not be able to fix everything, but he can get Kyra what she needs here, now. He can ensure that the prophecy is disrupted. Nothing is set until it happens, that’s what they teach in the Society, and he has to believe it’s true. Otherwise there’d be no place for oracles, no reason to ever know what might come. Nothing is set until it happens. That is the truth.

  He has to give Kyra the chance to see her own truth. She needs to understand that the shadows are hers, not the other way around.

  Oz prepares to lunge for Bronson while the older man is distracted by this new revelation from Legba. While all of them are – well, almost all. Set isn’t. Kyra doesn’t matter to the god. She’s nothi
ng but an inconvenience. Set wants his hunting ground back. He wants to be able to move between this life and the next, to betray his fellow gods at will without death able to hold him.

  As Oz moves, one of Set’s hands shoots toward him, claws extended. Oz decides that maybe the prophecy should have been something else entirely. It should have been about the death of Osborne Spencer at the hand of an Egyptian god.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Everything stops – or that’s how it feels. I gasp as Oz ducks to avoid Set’s claws. The god is infuriated by missing Oz, and advances on him. He foolishly stands his ground.

  Oz unsheathes his sword, and I know it is only a sword. Not a relic. Our lack of time has left us vulnerable and with nowhere near the firepower we need. I consider diving between them, but I’m not sure I can without making things worse, not with that blade out.

  Around Oz, a cloud of sand appears and begins to spin. “Kyra,” he chokes through it, “get out of here!”

  Oz strikes out at Set despite the spinning sand – or maybe because of it – and it thickens so much I can hardly see where one of them ends and the other begins.

  “Help him!” I beg Bronson.

  But Bronson only says, “I’m sorry, but it’s more important than ever that we end this the right way. You will be safe.”

  “Thank you,” Dad says. “For that, if nothing else.”

  The obscenity of this night… Set about to kill the boy Bronson vowed to raise as his own, my father thanking my grandfather for killing him instead of me, my mother in her black shroud begging for her death instead… Worse, it turns out this is all about me, about my parents trying to avoid a prophecy no one was able to warn me about. I might have lived an entire brief life without knowing.

  The racket of people entering the Hall from outside interrupts my dark line of thought. It is the best noise I’ve ever heard.

  “Oz, hang on!” I call. “They made it!”

  But he doesn’t answer. Set’s growling is the only thing audible in the cloud of whirling sand.

  Rose is at the front of a large group of operatives, a bow strung tight in her arms. “William Bronson, stop and face charges of your own treason,” she says.

  “I can’t,” Bronson responds. “It is not for you to censure me. Stay where you are.” He raises his voice, “Set, it’s time. Keep them back.”

  The grains of sand fall to the marble, and Set shoves Oz away from him. Oz has a nasty gash on his neck, and the cloth of one sand-coated arm of his uniform is ripped, but he appears to be breathing, and mainly unhurt.

  As if Bronson’s command is Set’s wish, the god sets his sights on the invading operatives. He stalks forward, then flinches at the shock of the bright light of a camera flashing on. I find Bree, right behind her mother, directing the cameraman to film everything, like we agreed.

  Rose glances over and frowns, but the man keeps filming. Tam and his dad are right beside them. Everyone is here, just like the plan dictates, but I know in my bones we’ve run out of time. Solstice is here too, and Bronson raises the scepter.

  Before it can come down on Dad, Oz is in motion. He flies forward and grabs it, his hands on either side of Bronson’s, forcing it up instead of toward its target. Bronson holds on, saying, “Let go, stupid boy.”

  “You did this. Now fix it,” I tell Legba, figuring it’s worth a shot. “Or you’ll be out of Lockes to kick around.”

  “Not my place.” Legba lifts his hands to signal he isn’t going to intervene.

  “Since when?” I ask.

  But it doesn’t matter. He’s brought us all here for his amusement or some other reason he’s not inclined to share. Enki continues to hang back, not getting involved either. There’s no voice in my mind offering advice, and no Anzu. We are on our own.

  Set turns away from the operatives, his attention back on Oz and Bronson. “Oz, heads up!” I shout, but Set is faster…

  If not quite fast enough. He releases a high-pitched yelp as an arrow sinks deep into his shoulder. I look over, expecting to see Rose reloading, but Justin holds a bow beside her and it was clearly his shot. The arrows must be the relics, because he takes another one from the quiver slung over Rose’s shoulder, reloads to shoot again.

  The entire Great Hall seems to crawl forward in slow motion. Mom sinks to Dad’s side, stroking his cheek, sobbing quietly. Bronson keeps fighting with Oz, and he’s managing to angle the Was down and into position. He’s going to pierce Dad’s chest with it. I understand that Oz won’t be able to stop him.

  Like that, I know what I have to do.

  If this is where I’m meant to die, I have to be sure that Dad will live, and that Bronson won’t get his way. I have to know that the world will make it through, even if I don’t.

  I jump between Bronson and Dad, Mom well behind me. I land in a crouch, and the Was scepter points straight at my heart.

  Bronson’s hand falters, the scepter dipping as he meets my eyes. I am not sure whether he’ll kill me or not. I don’t think he knows either.

  “No,” Oz says, through gritted teeth. He gives one last wrench and, helped by Bronson’s hesitation, yanks the Was scepter from his hands.

  “He has to die so she can live,” Bronson hits on a last-ditch argument, pleading. “You heard what Legba said. There’s a prophecy. We have no other option.”

  Oz says, “That’s not an option.”

  But Bronson reaches inside his jacket, and when his hand emerges something shines in it. A knife. He brought a backup weapon. Relic, not a relic, it won’t matter. He could still kill my father with it.

  It won’t finish the ritual and open the door, but I understand his desperation. He wants to salvage something, be a hero. He’s bought into the prophecy, and thinks he can trade a life for a life. Dad’s for mine. But it won’t end here, tonight. That won’t be enough for him.

  Bronson will never give up the search for his Gabrielle. Not after the things he’s already done.

  If he uses the knife to kill Dad, he’ll be able to claim he executed the traitor for treason, as decreed. Even with Rose here, he’ll get away with everything. He can blame Set for the reappearance of the Solstice Was, or maybe Legba. But he’ll never stop trying to bring back his wife, no matter the cost.

  “You understand what it means to want someone back,” Bronson says, bargaining with me. He sweeps his gaze to Mom, who weeps, inconsolable. “We are alike, Kyra. You and me. We could be a family. With Gabrielle here, and me, your mother... We could be a family again.”

  “Oz,” I say, “give me the scepter.”

  He understands. In one move, he’s at my side and placing the Was in my hands. Set, wounded, pivots toward us, but is distracted by another arrow. I’m sure it came from Justin.

  Mom holds up splayed fingers, an inadequate shield for Dad as Bronson lowers the knife. “William, don’t do this. It doesn’t have to be this way,” Dad says.

  Legba’s grin gleams, his laughter ringing out around us.

  In my mind, I hear Enki’s voice. Finally. He says: Yes. You do right.

  There is only one way to end this. I grip the Was scepter and I feel as if I’m holding a spear in some long ago village from the first time of the gods. Before I can change my mind, I shove it forward.

  The forked blades cut through Bronson’s chest so easily. The sensation of the weapon sliding into him, through skin and between bones, is sickening in its easiness. It’s as if the scepter craves his death. Maybe it does. Death is its purpose, and so it slips through him.

  I don’t have any illusions about what I’ve done. The relic might like taking life, but it didn’t make the decision. I did.

  Bronson drops the knife and it clatters onto the marble. He clutches at the metal buried deep within him. I aimed for the heart. It’s what made him like this. His broken heart brought us here.

  He lifts his head and looks at me. He drops his hands, stops fighting.

  “I hope she forgives you,” I say. “Now you can be togeth
er.”

  “Gabrielle,” he says, the word soft, a whisper. I can’t read his expression. Pain, fear, hope… Maybe all of them pass over his features, and then he falls. In that instant, the glow around Dad disappears.

  Legba claps. “Well done. But oops.” He takes flight and lands halfway up the stairs.

  “Kyra!” Bree shouts, and Oz echoes it.

  But my attention is stuck on the reason. Set has someone to blame for not getting what he wanted, and that someone is me. He rips the second arrow from the round bulge of his shoulder, and comes at me, snarling. The scepter might be enough to save me, a weapon wielded against its creator. But it’s in Bronson.

  Oz pushes in front of me, but Set bats him out of the way and Oz hits the marble hard. Set’s sharp teeth snap in my face and his clawed hand grabs the back of my neck and pulls me to him. I wonder how he will kill me. Are those teeth going to close on my throat? The claws sink through my skin? Am I really destined to die here, tonight?

  In that moment, I am aware how much I want to live. My blood sings with the need to survive.

  A layer of ice sprays over Set, freezing him in place. But not for long – cracks appear almost immediately as he thrashes against the coating. But, in the flurry of motion, he releases me and I scramble away from him. Set’s attention is no longer on me, but on Enki, striding forward. He sends another wave of ice through the air, and Set counters with a wave of sand.

  The operatives are calling out to each other, not sure whether they should get in the middle of this or not. Enki bellows displeasure, and Set lashes out. Shadows like snapping jackals emerge from his hand, and latch onto Enki’s scaled arm.

  “Bravo!” Legba calls and jumps back into the thick of things.

  He lands next to Enki and Set. He brings the bottom of his walking stick down on the marble, hard. The floor shakes with its force. His voice booms out, echoing through the Great Hall. “So, you’re probably wondering why I brought you all here this evening.”

  Maybe it wasn’t the floor trembling. It might just be me.

  Oz gets back up, sword in one hand, and reaches for me with the other. I make it to his side, and we lean into each other. He holds the sword in front of us. Any protection is better than none.