The Trickster's Strings: A Superhero Adventure-Romance (Godsongs Book 2)

by Jax Garren

  “She is excellent motivation to win.”

  “She is,” he readily agreed. What kind of a life would Freyja have had with this woman instead of growing up as she had? It hurt to think about all the needless suffering she’d endured—that she and her mother had both endured. “You’ve got me now. I know I’m not much—yet—but we’ll look out for her together.” He turned a longing gaze toward the door, anxious to make sure Freyja was safe.

  A rattling sound make him look back. Bryn was shaking some things in a bag, then threw them out. Runes, but a different set than Freyja had used.

  His face heated at the memory of Freyja tossing runes... and what had happened next.

  Bryn muttered over the throw, which looked a lot more random than Freyja’s bizarre single-rune response. After tapping a few stones, she looked up at him. “We wait until morning. She’ll get a message to us then.”

  “You can tell from...” He looked skeptically at the random carvings on the rocks.

  She nodded a confident affirmation. “Going tonight would do no good whatsoever—probably make things worse. She’s not at the base.”

  “Where is she?” Literally, how could she tell that from some carved pebbles? His nerves came crashing back. He should be saving his partner, not hanging out in a motel room looking at rocks.

  Bryn shrugged. “I don’t know. Just that she’s not there.”

  “You seem really calm, considering it’s your daughter—”

  The look Bryn shot him was startlingly decisive. “Listen, boy, I’ve been panicking about the fate of my daughter for possibly longer than you’ve had teeth. She’s alive. Do you know what an incredible relief that is? She’s clever. She’s got Freyja. She’ll survive the night. I’ll not make the situation worse by trying to fix a problem that she has handled.”

  “And if she doesn’t have it handled?”

  Bryn nodded. “She has until noon tomorrow to get in touch with us. Then we take action. In the meantime, try to act as normal as possible. If you have a job or classes or whatever it is you do with your life on a Monday morning, do it. You’ll not remain hidden long if you break your schedule every time there’s an emergency; this life is one long series of emergencies.” The look she shot him was practically wizened with knowledge gained the hard way. “What Huehuecoyotl does is risky enough—don’t take extra risks. Relentlessly make sure everyone sees you do what they always see you do. And trust your partner absolute—” Her voice cracked, and she looked away, eyes suddenly tearing up. “Well, you can trust yours, anyway.”

  As she looked down, getting her expression back under control, he was dying to ask her what really happened. But that was a question for Freyja to ask her mother, not him. Tomorrow, hopefully, they’d find out together.

  Bryn stood and moved restlessly about. “It’s been so long since I’ve done this, and keeping sanity is a constant power siphon.” She stared at the other bed, the one he hadn’t been unconscious on. “I wonder what it’ll be like to lie down.” She walked to it and fingered the threadbare duvet.

  His memory kicked back to the hole, barely big enough to squat in, where they’d found her. Shit. “Sorry it’s not nicer for your first day back.”

  “I haven’t seen such luxury in years.” Her face crunched. “I think. I don’t remember...” She pulled the sheet back carefully and sat down, then lay down, covering herself up slowly. Each motion was deliberate, like testing out a new piano, feeling how familiar and yet new it was all at once. Tucked in, knees up in the fetal position, she turned the pillow sideways and held it like a lover.

  Did Freyja sleep the same way? It was going to be a long night worrying about her. About both of them.

  “Coyote? Is it all right if I call you that since... since Freyja does? I can say your full name if you prefer.”

  “No, either’s fine. I’m used to Coyote.” She didn’t know he’d only been doing this a week. Maybe he’d let her believe he had some clue what he was doing.

  The look Bryn gave him was so raw it hurt. “Tell me about my daughter? I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start. So just tell me something. Please? I think maybe then I could sleep.” With that request, her godpower gave out and she returned to herself. Her face aged and thinned as her hair became a matted chaos the shower couldn’t fix. “Bíum, bíum, bambaló og dillidillidó. I rock my girl slow.” At least this time she sang it gently.

  He lay on the other bed and pulled his phone out, and it didn’t take long to figure out that she was singing an Icelandic lullaby. He played it. “This what you sang to your daughter?”

  She smiled and kept singing softly, letting the phone do most of the music. It was a pretty song.

  “Think one of these days you can teach me the translation? I only see it in Icelandic.”

  He couldn’t tell if the nod she gave him was an assent or merely nodding somewhere in the vicinity of the beat. As the haunting melody played, he took a breath and tried to answer her question. “Your daughter—Freyja—is the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. She makes me want to be a better man.”

  Bryn’s hand reached across the gap between the beds, and she sang, “I rock my girl slow.”

  Rafael took her hand, and she squeezed his fingers. It was going to be a long night worrying about Freyja in a shitty motel with her mother. But as long as his partner was okay in the morning, he could handle anything. “The first time I saw Freyja was in a homeless shelter,” he started, ready to talk until the woman fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  GISELLE HAD SPENT HALF the night cramming into her brain all the knowledge she could about Kur, its ruler Ereshkigal, and the many denizens of the Sumerian underworld, all the while trying not to think about Coyote and her mother—her mother, who was not dead—and how they were doing. Those thoughts would just drive her crazy when she needed to survive her task. A little after midnight, Ande had ordered her to bed with a cup of tea.

  She had no idea what was in that tea, but it must’ve been something special because she’d fallen asleep easily and stayed that way until her alarm had brought her back to reality with a heart-pounding jolt.

  Ande pulled up as close to her English class as they could get and kept the motor running. Before Giselle got out, though, she spoke for the first time since grouchily marching her to the car. “Assume you’re being watched and don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Did they follow us? They must know who I am, then.” Giselle swallowed, unsure how the government knowing her identity would change things.

  But Ande scoffed. “They tried to.” Her tone said they’d failed. Finally, she looked at Giselle, making steady eye contact. Despite the constancy of her gaze, Giselle had never seen her look more out of sorts. “World militaries have grown strong enough that it’s better to ally than fight. We don’t control them, they don’t control us, and usually we can find a way to work together for the common good.”

  “And by we you mean the magistrates?”

  “Yes.” Ande sighed heavily and changed the subject. “I understand why you left with him. Believe it or not, I was young once, and I still remember—somewhat.” Her eyes narrowed. “And when I call you young, I mean responsible for yourself and no one else. Unlike you, when I fail, other people suffer for it. I don’t have the luxury of taking risks like you do.”

  Put like that... Giselle nodded. “I’m still going back to him when this is over. We’re a team.”

  “So who is he?” Ande failed utterly at looking casual, and Giselle managed not to roll her eyes.

  “I still don’t know. We agreed not to try and figure it out.”

  “I’m going to figure it out.”

  “Okay, but don’t tell me.”

  Ande harrumphed. “Go to class, you little twit. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  Giselle had never been called a twit with that much affection before, and she exited the car feeling a little lighter than she had all morning.

  The hope didn’t last the h
undred yards it took to walk to the building, where Rawan, her roommate and friend, waited for her with an eager smile. “So, two nights? Do tell!” She frowned. “You don’t look happy.”

  Rawan knew her secret, which made part one of the half-cocked plan Giselle had cobbled together possible. “I need you to get a message to—”

  She was cut off when somebody bumped into her, spilling coffee down her shirt. Irritation didn’t have a chance to take hold, though, when she saw who it was.

  “Shit. I’m... uh...” Rafael, in sunglasses and a just-rolled-out-of-bed sort of look, backed up and looked her up and down. “Glendabelle, you’re here.” He almost sounded surprised.

  She couldn’t help a smile at their inside joke. She had an inside joke with Rafael Marquez! Even thoughts of Kur couldn’t dim the awesomeness of that. “It’s English. Why wouldn’t I be? Oh, gods.” Embarrassment made her face hot as the other major event of the weekend rushed back. She’d admitted to Rafael exactly how much his music had helped her when she hadn’t been doing so well a couple years back. “That thing I told you. You don’t need to worry about it. I’m not, like, uh...” Not still dangerously depressed.

  “Huh? Oh! No! No, I wasn’t... uh...” He was super out of it—worse than he’d been on Saturday night. “I got coffee all over your shirt. I’m really sorry.” With a napkin he patted at the brown on her shoulder, and she blushed harder—but this time because he was touching her. Tingles erupted all over her skin from the clumsy contact. Rafael’s coffee was on her shirt. That was so cool. Okay, yeah, it wasn’t cool in the sense of being actually cool, but it was cool to her because she was just barely on the acceptable side of the crazy-stalker-fan line. She knew it was nuts, and she didn’t care.

  “It’s okay.” She tried to make a joke. “I didn’t get coffee this morning and was thinking I wanted some, so... tada!”

  “No coffee? That’s a terrible way to live.” He took two swigs, then presented the extra-large Starbucks cup to her. “Take my latte because I dumped some on your shirt.”

  “You don’t have to, uh...” It smelled really good. He was so sweet!

  “Go on; it’s not even my first one this morning.”

  Ande only had tea at her house—the nutter. Coffee was, like, a fundamental American right or something. And he had dumped the coffee on her shirt. And she was going to battle demons in an underworld this afternoon—this could be her last cup of coffee. She took it. “Thanks.” She turned the cup to face her and put her lips where Rafael Marquez’s had been. Right on his coffee cup. Almost like they were kissing, but through the cup intermediary.

  Holy crap, she was insane when it came to him.

  He smiled at her, his tired eyes lighting up and his jawline covered with the perfect amount of lazy stubble, and the world looked lovely. The drink had a sweet and nutty flavor to it and tasted like bliss. Maybe if she could kiss him right now, she could march into Kur and be ready for whatever came.

  “I’m glad you’re, uh, here,” he said.

  “Are you hungover?” She slapped her hand over her mouth. What kind of question was that? He’d been stoned on Saturday night, but this was Monday. He was a rock star, though, so...

  He blinked at her, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. A friend suggested hair of the dog yesterday. Always seems like a good idea at the time. Never actually is.”

  “Are you three coming to class?”

  Giselle nearly spit out latte as the professor breezed by them, heading toward the classroom with a scowl. She’d been pretty judgmental with Rafael, in Giselle’s opinion.

  Rafael winced, apparently thinking the same thing. “English is my good class. I’m going to fail out of college.” He turned toward the door, and the three of them started walking. “I need new friends. Studious ones.”

  “I can help you with math.” Or... she could if she didn’t die in the underworld this afternoon.

  He gave her a half smile. “I can pay you for tutoring.”

  She shrugged and took a risk. “Friends don’t charge.”

  He stopped just outside the door, and his expression turned serious as he rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I’m not hungover; that’s just easy to say and people believe it. I’m worried about a friend, and I barely slept last night. I’m trying not to be that guy anymore—the one on one big party.” His nose wrinkled, then he yawned. “I don’t care what most people think—people seem to like living vicariously through my stupidity, so, whatever, let them.” His beautiful brown eyes captured her with the dramatic sweep of his best melodies, making her feel lost and floating and desperately in need of a deep breath. “But I would like for you to think better of me than that.”

  He cared what she thought? A manic-fan part of her crumbled a little under his admission, transforming into a more grounded feeling. Like maybe they really could be friends, the kind of relationship that meant something, instead of the fantasy she’d spent years building in her head with no understanding of the real man behind the music. What a weird miracle that would be for a girl who’d grown up without a home or mooring. “What happened?” she asked, trying to be sympathetic.

  His brow wrinkled as he looked away from her. “Lance, our bassist.” Giselle nodded, unsurprised. Rumor had it that while Rafael was trying to clean up his act, the bassist for Rage Riot was partying dangerously hardcore. “He’s been my friend for a long time. It’s hard to know when to step in.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  They got into the classroom, and he rubbed her shoulder—the one with the coffee—then frowned and wiped that hand on his jeans. “I’ll get you a new shirt.” He started to head his way around the classroom to the seat he always sat in.

  “Don’t. This was five dollars at Goodwill,” she announced, then headed the opposite way, realizing she’d just announced her shopping habits to a class full of designer purses. Great.

  Rafael turned back with a tired smile that somehow managed to be a tad impish. “Then I’ll spend five dollars or less.”

  The professor cleared her throat, and Rawan yanked Giselle down into her seat. As the prof began, Giselle looked across the giant horseshoe-shaped table arrangement to where Rafael sat. Beside him, Mia, a fashionista who seemed to have proclaimed herself his campus bodyguard, was scribbling furiously on the notepad they kept between them during class, a concerned wrinkle marring her beautiful face.

  Rafael just gave her a little wave as if nothing was wrong, wrote down one word, and turned his attention to the professor. Mia relaxed at whatever it was he’d written, shook her head like he was a naughty kid, and turned her own attention to class.

  He’d told Mia he was hungover—the same easy lie he’d initially told her—Giselle was sure of it. But then, unlike Mia, he’d told Giselle the truth. Like they were really becoming friends. Don’t die today. Don’t die...

  Under the table, Rawan jabbed her in the leg with her pen. Giselle gave her friend a what-the-fuck look and mouthed, “That hurt.”

  The pen tapped against the notepad Rawan had put between them—not their normal practice. On it was written, “Message?”

  “To my partner,” Giselle wrote back, underlining my partner. Rawan started to write something else, but Giselle dropped a note in her lap that she’d already prepared. Then she wrote on the notepad, “Please delete that phone number after calling. I’m not supposed to give it out.”

  Rawan gave her a sense of wonder that was just starting to look concerned, and scribbled, “Notes and secret phone numbers? I feel like a spy. Is everything okay?”

  Giselle nodded, but for some reason she couldn’t fake equanimity for her roommate and her expression crumbled. She shook her head and wrote. “Just, please, read him the note. And check on my mom for me.”

  Rawan blinked at the notebook, blinked at Giselle, her expression going pale, then wrote, “Your mom?”

  Chapter 6

  GLENDABELLE HAD BEEN in class. In Rafael’s exhaustion, a belief he hadn’t realized he’
d developed had rattled to the forefront when he’d accidentally dumped his coffee all over his classmate. Some part of him had assumed that Giselle Ryder wouldn’t be in English because she was in an army base. Her presence had so startled him he’d almost said something stupid, like, “How did you get out?”

  But clearly his subconscious was an idiot because Freyja would’ve been unavailable for English this morning, obliterating that burgeoning theory. And wasn’t it the height of arrogance to assume one of his long-term fans was the alter ego of the woman he was in love with—that in reality she was as devoted to him as he was to her.

  That winning her would be easy.

  He closed his eyes, and the memory of Freyja’s kiss pressed heavily on him. She’d just done it to get close enough to him to pass off the bag of godstones, preventing them from falling into the military’s hands. But damn, it’d been sweet. Thinking Giselle could be Freyja was a cocktail crafted out of stress and wishful thinking.

  The green outside their classroom was crowded as he hurried toward his car, worried about both Freyja and her mother. He’d left the godstones at the motel with a sleeping Bryn—which, this morning, on two hours of crappy sleep and no coffee, had seemed perfectly reasonable, seeing as they were actually hers. About fifteen minutes into English, it’d dawned on him that might’ve been a serious error in judgment.

  His cell phone rang, and he nearly dropped it in his haste to check who it was. An unknown number came up. Adrenaline shocked the remaining haze away, and he sprinted the rest of the way to his car. As he slid in he answered, “Freyja?” then realized what a dumbass move that was. What if his manager was calling from a different phone?

  “Coyote?” He didn’t recognize the voice, but the woman’s frustrated worry came through loud and clear.