Powers

by James A. Burton

  Clothes folded on that chair, his. Cleaned. How long had he been sleeping, anyway? His bladder suggested, quite a while. He sat up. Where did she keep her bathroom?

  One of the “closet” doors stood ajar about six inches, a signpost out of character with her obsessive tidiness. Tiled wall visible next to the doorjamb. QED, bathroom.

  Bathroom large, off-white tile and fixtures, large soaking tub that could have taken two friendly people, separate shower. Again, nothing left sitting out on the sink top or toilet tank, no toothpaste stains or hair in the sink.

  Tidy. Compulsive tidy. He tended more toward casual. Or, to be more truthful, a slob. That could be a problem. He dared to poke into the mirrored cabinet, just in case she kept a razor, conscious of a week or two worth of stubble. She hadn’t complained, but . . .

  No razor. Everything inside the cabinet just as neat.

  Back in the bedroom, dressing, the pants and shirt smelled twice-washed but still carried the memory of stains. Like she said, blood “sets” if you give it half a chance. Apparently, the same went for hydra goo. He found rips mended with the tight precise handstitching of someone who had learned to sew long before the invention of sewing machines. That added some further hours to the answer for the “How long have I slept?” question.

  He finally noticed what woke him up, an indication of how groggy he still was. Food. More specifically, the smell of gourmet cooking—lamb, onion, something the Western world generically called “curry”—turmeric, coriander, cumin, touches of cinnamon, ginger, cardamom. He wasn’t ignorant enough to think that what he smelled came out of a jar labeled “Curry Powder.” She’d have her own range of blended spices for each specific dish, if she was any kind of cook. With variations that depended on the season and the weather and what she thought his aura needed.

  His nose told him that she was a serious cook. It told him to follow that smell. His stomach agreed. Vehemently.

  Delicious smells wafted his way through one of the “closet” doors. No, not a closet but a corridor leading to the middle room, the meditation room, dark now but with enough light spilling in from the kitchen to guide his feet. He wondered what, who, he’d find there, which Detective Lieutenant Melissa el Hajj, Goddess of the Mountain Winds.

  Mel. Definitely Mel, of all her multiple personalities. She was wearing a narrow shalwar kameez in thin blue silk, pants and top clingy enough that he could tell she wore nothing under them. He remembered the shape and touch of her hard stringy body in the night.

  And remembered other things. They’d been . . . excessive. Product of a couple of centuries of celibacy, at least on his part, and she’d responded with a ferocity that told him she’d also been a long time between lovers. He expected bruises. Worth it.

  He hoped he’d lived up to her standards. She hadn’t mentioned Hani in any of the random noise, anyway.

  She turned, not that he’d made any sound, probably sensing a change in the air. “Just to clear this out of the way right from the start—half dead, you’re a better lover than he was on his best day. Or night. You have much more stamina, and he couldn’t let go of some cultural baggage. Inhibitions. Whole different league. You should turn pro.”

  He blinked at her mind-reading, and then thought of something lost in the fury and haze. “Should we have been using birth control?”

  She laughed, a touch of bawdy cackle in her tone. “I’m a few thousand years old. All that time, I’ve never gotten pregnant, and that’s not for lack of chances. Contrary to what some guys on the force might think, I don’t have ‘that time of the month.’ Don’t worry about getting stuck for child support.”

  Then her eyes narrowed. “Of course, I don’t think I’ve ever screwed another god before. Who knows? Maybe we’re just not fertile with humans.” Another wicked grin. “We’ve got two families of babysitters downstairs. They’d fight over the chance to help raise a Mel-baby.”

  How many arms did that statue have, anyway? Durga instead of Kali? Also a warrior goddess, but Maa Durga, mother goddess . . . more protector than destroyer. But Durga was a mother, and she just said she’s never been pregnant . . .

  Quit trying to fit her into the Hindu pantheon. She’s Mel. Not a Hindu in the first place.

  Just, Mel. With aspects of other goddesses as needed.

  Too much theology on an empty stomach. She dished out the, the “lamb curry” for lack of a precise name, orange lumps of rich sauce and meat over rice. He fetched the chair from her bedroom—if he was going to spend much time here she’d need another chair or two—and settled down to serious eating. While he was moving furniture, she’d popped a couple of beers, Sam Adams, and poured them with a proper head. Yes, those would go with the aroma rising from his plate.

  The . . . curry . . . woke tears in his eyes. Not that it was hot, not as hot food goes, just enough bite to focus his mind on the flavors, but an exquisite blend of foods and herbs and spices cooked just long enough for each—lamb seared by itself, same with the onions, not stewed in the sauce, so they remained distinct, rice just gummy enough to hold the sauce, some non-ethnic touches like tomatoes that couldn’t have been in her original cuisine.

  Non-ethnic original cuisine bullshit! Curry isn’t native to her hills. Lamb isn’t. Even the rice. One last time, quit trying to classify her. It ain’t gonna work. She’s at least as old as I am, and has lived in as many different cultures. Just savor the food. The moment. The things that go bump in the night.

  If she got bored with him in bed, maybe she’d at least invite him over for dinner now and then . . .

  He swallowed another lump of bliss and sighed. “How’d you get the timing on this just right? I stagger out of bed, and everything comes together to perfection after a couple of hours of work? Won’t be nearly as good if it sits for even fifteen minutes.”

  “I’d hoped smelling food would wake you up. This time, it worked. I’ve finished off three meals by myself, your loss. Second day, now.”

  “You must have gone out shopping. That was fresh meat, fresh tomatoes, all the rest. Not frozen or canned. I could taste the difference.”

  She laughed again, less wicked this time. “You’ll be meeting the Goddess Mel Support Society soon enough. Bismillah and Lakshmi, downstairs. They heard we were back and, morning after, brought in enough fresh groceries for a small army. Feeding holy beggars, or something. They acquire merit thereby.”

  “Muslim and Hindu names . . . ”

  “And a tribe of refugee devil-worshipers from so far back in the hills we’re probably half Chinese. Yes. People tend to be more ecumenical, when you bring your own goddess incarnate with you.”

  Actually, she’s probably what made them ecumenical. Her worshipers didn’t have much choice.

  “They heard us. We made that much noise?”

  The ribald laugh again. “Trust me, they approve. They’re relieved, even. They worry about their goddess. In their world, people and gods should come in sets. Not necessarily in pairs, mind you, they can get creative. But celibacy isn’t natural. My people are rather . . . earthy, is the polite term. They didn’t ask where I was, but they were glad I brought back a souvenir.”

  “How long have we been gone?”

  “Nearly three weeks.”

  Ouch. “Any problems with your job? With the police force, I mean?”

  She shook her head. “I’m on medical leave, remember?” She lifted her left hand. “Broken wrist? Not fit for duty? And I think the chief marks any day he doesn’t have to deal with me as a good day. I know the rest of the squad does.”

  They’re probably too scared of her to raise questions, anyway.

  She looked around at the wreckage. They’d managed to demolish two heaped steaming plates of curry on rice each with just enough leftovers to prove her guest didn’t want more—laws of hospitality observed—and two beers each. Part of the goddess thing, she’d cooked exactly the right amount.

  “I cooked, you wash up. Now you owe me a good meal, fair exchange.
I figure the grouse and the fish stew come out even.”

  Albert took a good deep sniff of the remaining curry before she scraped it into glass bowls for the refrigerator. “What makes you think I can equal this?”

  Raised eyebrows. “I’ve cooked in your kitchen. I saw what you had, raw materials and tools. You wouldn’t have all that, care properly for all that, put that much wear on pots and pans and cutting boards and stove, and not be able to use it to good purpose. Besides, you couldn’t have appreciated this,” hefting one of the bowls, “without some talent of your own. I’ve met damn few people I’d cook this for. Too much like work.”

  She cocked her head to one side, remembering. “Comes down to it, I knew from your cutting boards. Five of them. Different boards for different foods. I sniffed them. I may have been pissed off at you and Legion just then, but I wasn’t going to insult good food by cutting sausage on a fruit board. Five boards—bread only, cheese and fruit on opposite sides, onions and garlic, herbs and vegetables, and meat. Don’t mix tastes unless you intend it.”

  An afterthought: “Oh, and the plastic cutting mat for fish. But you hadn’t cooked fish lately. Probably couldn’t get it fresh enough to suit you. Or fresh enough is too expensive.”

  I knew she’d used the right board. Just felt damn glad for the good luck.

  As for wear, well, damn few people put enough mileage on a cast-iron skillet to wear the maker’s mark off. She’s got me there.

  With a wicked grin she walked over to the corner and opened a cabinet revealing a stereo system, expensive stereo, he knew the brand and lusted after it. Speakers must be built into the walls or ceiling—he couldn’t spot them. She punched a button, and Wagner filled the room. The Nibelheim scene from Das Rheingold, those tuned anvils, she must have cued up the track and kept it lurking while she waited for him to wake up.

  “You’re just playing that to annoy me. Wagner really screwed up the story.”

  Her grin widened. “Me, annoy someone? On purpose? Never. Or, hardly ever . . . Anyway, I sort of hope you haven’t forsworn earthly love for all eternity.”

  Well. “First thing, that doesn’t say a word about hot raw animal sex. So, last night or whenever, that’s not covered.”

  She glared at him, the corners of her mouth struggling with a grin.

  “Second, Wagner made that up. Yeah, if one of the Lorelei jumped into bed with me, I’d jump out the other side twice as fast. You’ve never met them. Vicious bitches, wrecking ships and then stealing from drowned sailors. That’s how they got the Rheingold in the first place. I did swear off human lovers, for reasons we both know.”

  Sobered, she stared at him for a moment. “Available evidence says, I won’t grow old and die on you. Because of that, I’m not asking or giving any vows. Just, come by every now and then. I’m okay with a little on the side.” Pause. “Or on my back, on top, standing up, down on hands and knees . . . ”

  That ribald grin again, and another pause. “You’re fun, both in and out of bed. A little strange, but who am I to talk?”

  She waved at the stereo. “Anyway, the leitmotif is because your Seal wants you up and working. It bit me yesterday. Taking it out of the pack when I was cleaning and fixing.”

  She held up her right hand, flexing it, a red line across her palm. He couldn’t tell if that had been a cut or a burn, now that it was healing.

  She could have used the “Anvil Chorus” instead. But no, it had to be Wagner. Because she is who she is. Get used to it.

  She headed through the door, tossing words back over her shoulder. “I need to change out of this harem gear and you need to wash up. Break’s over, back on your head.”

  How would she know that I know that old joke?

  Because of the old part.

  And because he found her dish detergent in the logical place, and the scrub pad and the drainer and the dishtowels. They had a lot in common. He only had to try twice to find where she stowed her empty beer bottles before returning them.

  And she wasn’t that annoying. She’d set up a play list on her stereo, and as soon as the short snippet of Wagner finished, it went on to Irish fiddle and then North African flute with drums. Moroccan? All of it good, if eclectic. He found the speakers, flat acoustic panels set into the ceiling and with some smooth surface that looked pretty much like plaster until you followed the sound to its source.

  I wonder what else she has hidden around here. More to everything than meets the eye.

  Like in my place.

  Then she was back, dressed in uniform coveralls and cop aura again with the gun-belt and radio and all. Arson Squad Lieutenant, from tip of cap to spit-polished boots.

  She blinked at his stare. “Don’t know what you’re going to do about that Seal, but I want to look official if you blow up the forge or take out power for half the city. It could give us a head start on our getaway. We’re fucking around with Powers Beyond Those of Mortal Men—just being gods doesn’t mean we can’t screw the proverbial pooch.”

  Putting on the uniform even changes her idiom.

  “Where’s the Seal?”

  Mel led him into the middle room, flipped on a recessed ceiling light, and opened a deep closet. She reached inside, not even looking. She knew where she left things, and they’d damned well better still be there . . .

  First, the naginata, then the pack. He stared at her weapon. Her weapon now, no doubt about it. She’d killed some time with it, double meaning, trimming the rough cuts he’d made in the forest and smoothing a bevel on edges of the remaining bark, replacing his bark-strip lashing with cord. Looked like silk or maybe nylon, tan but glossier than hemp, and more of it for long wrapped handgrips on the shaft. It wasn’t kumihimo, more like the tight twine “serving” a mariner would wrap on a ship’s wheel for grip.

  It fit the rustic flavor of the weapon and turned it into intentional design. Not makeshift any more. He touched it, running fingers over the sheath. His blade felt comfortable there. It had found a new home.

  She looked a question at him, had she pushed too far? Taken a gift where none was intended? He nodded acceptance.

  There’s the difference between her and Mother. Mother wouldn’t have asked. Would never have thought of asking. Anything she wanted, was already hers.

  And then, the Seal. She pulled it out of the pack, wrapped in plastic again, and he saw she was wearing gloves. Even gods are pain-averse.

  He felt the whine. She stepped back, waving a gesture that said she wasn’t gonna touch that thing again. All yours, Maestro . . .

  He unwrapped the pieces. They looked like they had when he picked them up in front of Fafnir’s cave. Two pieces of old gray wrought iron, five points of the Star of David and a separate full triangle, ragged edges at two angles where Mother broke it off.

  He floated his right palm over each piece, trying to make sense of what he felt. Stared off into space. Vibrations, strings of molecules twisting into spaghetti, like one of those microchip computer circuits . . .

  She didn’t ask, but he could see the question hanging in the air above her head, like a cartoon.

  “It isn’t dying. It isn’t working, either. The smaller piece feels like the larger, sort of like when you break a bar magnet, it doesn’t stop being a magnet. Instead, you get two bar magnets. Just, smaller.”

  But it wasn’t doing what Solomon had intended. Mother’s plan had worked that far. But she hadn’t killed her enemy.

  The Seal knew him. He touched it and it didn’t bite. He picked up the pieces, one in each hand, and tried to add their weight and temperature and molecular vibration to their story. He tried fitting the broken pieces together.

  They repelled each other. Magnet analogy, again, as if each jagged jigsaw piece was trying to fit “north” to “north” against the will of physics. He studied the broken faces, making sure he was matching the correct ends with each other.

  He was, no question. They hadn’t broken clean. One ragged corner of the triangle had a dent that
matched a outcrop on the main body. The curve followed those internal lines he sensed.

  But the piece didn’t want to go back there. He set the main body flat on the floor and tried to drop the triangle into place. It flipped over.

  Out of curiosity, not really thinking it would help him find a solution, but . . . she’d dumped his keys and wallet back in his pants pocket after washing. He’d felt the weight. He pulled out his keys. Most were brass, but some of the old locks took old keys, skeleton keys, cast steel keys. He dangled one next to the main piece of the Seal, and then the detached triangle.

  No attraction—not magnetic.

  He looked up at Mel again. Again, unspoken questions hovered around her head.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, no. Not a clue. But I’m glad Solomon didn’t use magnetism as part of his working. Forge heat will destroy a magnet. Lets the lines of force escape, the molecules turn out of alignment. Or something.”

  And I don’t need any further complications.

  XXVI

  Albert squinted at the flat gray sky. Not raining. No thunder and lightning providing theatrical backlights for the mad scientist’s ruined castle silhouetted on the ridge overhead. No typhoons or tornados, either. Not even snowing or sleeting or hailing or dropping a plague of frogs on him. He distrusted that. How can you have a proper apocalypse without storms?

  Still, the sky offered at least a threat of storm. Of proper drama. Gusty winds, puddles dotting normal dirty stinky city streets, enough lingering damp chill that he needed his jacket. His nose had forgotten diesel soot and dogshit and overflowing dumpsters and just too damn many jostling-elbows people in the last few weeks. Forests smelled better.

  But apparently the Powers That Be weren’t throwing a fit about them walking to his forge. That probably meant there was no way in hell he’d be able to fix the Seal. Jehovah’s apocalypse didn’t need to rush to beat the deadline. It could keep its own schedule.

  Mel was doing her cop thing, striding along in her starched-uniform official aura that flowed out fifty yards and owned the street, making half of the scattered pedestrians look like they had something to hide. The ones that hadn’t seen her first that is, and vanished before he ever noticed them.