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

by Jax Garren

  She tried to think of something nice to say. “You play guitar.”

  “Yup.” He got to the next gate and tugged off the metal band around his left bicep.

  “You play like you really know how.”

  “Don’t act so shocked that I’m competent at something.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” She dropped a granola bar on the ground, feeling fortunate she had a bag to draw from for the offerings or whatever this was. “I was just trying to say that you’re good. I mean, I play guitar a little, but you really know what you’re doing. I had no idea.”

  “Gate’s not opening,” Rawan announced. “Everyone dropped something?”

  Coyote’s jaw clenched. “For the love of...” He pulled the matching cuff from around his right arm and dropped it. The third gate parted and slid back with a grind of wood on sand as the path before them got dustier. “Matching set. Apparently it needs both. This is going to get interesting.”

  Did she say something? Reach out? They were not okay, and while she was relieved to not be alone, she was terrified that now nearly everyone she cared about was at risk. And possibly hated her.

  Before she could come up with something that might fix this, he finally looked at her, and his face was so pinched in frustration she almost took a step back. But the gate was open, and instead of advancing on her, he proceeded through it. “My grandfather taught me when I was a kid. I’ve been playing guitar a long time—unlike a five-hundred-year-old clay pipe or a drum used by a single tribe in central Mexico several hundred years ago, neither of which I’d ever tried to use before. I am not incompetent.”

  “I’ve never thought you were incompetent.” She tossed out a cheap pen.

  Coyote yanked a sheathed dagger, an extra godstone, and his cellphone out of his pouch and then dropped the empty pouch. “You constantly think I’m incompetent. If I couldn’t pay for shit you wouldn’t be around.” As he complained, he shoved his phone into her pouch, a weirdly compatriotic thing to do in the middle of a fight—like he trusted he’d be able to get it from her later.

  That was... good? She wasn’t used to fighting without violence or, at least, people screaming nasty things.

  “Hey, that’s not fair.” She poked him in the shoulder. “I never asked you to spend a dime. You just buy stuff all the time, and yeah, I’m grateful, but it has nothing to do with us working together.”

  “It has everything to do with it.” After shoving the godstone beneath the dagger sheath’s clasp, he poked her back, a single, slow shot to the shoulder that didn’t hurt and she could’ve easily avoided. Instead, his finger lingered against her armor for a moment before he yanked his hand back and ran it through his hair. “You kept trying to ditch me until I got the lair, and then you were like, ‘Okay, I guess we can maybe work together.’”

  As they marched toward the fourth gate, the group divided into two units, the verbal match between her and Coyote and the silent huddle of everyone else. She tried to lower her voice. “That wasn’t what happened. Look, you’re not the kind of person I normally hang with—”

  “And what ‘kind’ of person am I?”

  She stopped in front of the gate, hands on her hips, as he dropped down to unlace a boot and glared up at her. “The successful kind! I’ve spent most of my life hanging out with people who are probably going to prison—and not for carrying a godstone. For dealing drugs. For prostitution. For robbing a gas station. Because they’re poor and barely educated and have no options in life. My old friends may be shady, but I know when I can trust them and when I can’t.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “You, though... I don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you’re here doing this. And one day you’re going to wake up and realize you could be having a good time somewhere instead of fighting demons with a girl who doesn’t have her shit together. And you’re going to bail because you’re smart enough to see that since you have another choice, doing this is idiotic!”

  She tossed a scrunchy on the ground as he finished unlacing his shoes. For a moment he looked like he’d throw one at her. Instead, he stood ramrod straight as he shucked his boots, seething rage in his expression.

  She backed up, realizing what an idiot she’d been to bait him. She wasn’t going to fight Coyote, no matter what he did to her, which basically just meant getting pummeled. Shit.

  Her back hit the wall, and he leaned in, filling her space. “I am not a good-for-nothing party boy. I didn’t have to chase you into Hades—Kur—wherever the fuck we are. I don’t even care where it is. I came here because we’re a team, and teammates don’t hare off in their own fucking direction, leaving the other person to have a heart attack worrying about them.” He stuck a finger in her face. “I have never left you behind, not when you didn’t explicitly tell me to as part of a larger plan. You can’t say the same to me.”

  The gates began to roll back, and Giselle stared at him and his shockingly gentle rage with mouth agape. Was he right? Had she been so worried about him leaving that she’d been the one deserting him? She looked at the ground, trying to piece her thoughts together, but he was so close, and she was so relieved about it, she wanted to hug him. Except that he was furious. The only thing she could think to say was, “Thanks for coming. You didn’t have to.”

  He pressed his hand into the wall beside her head and leaned in until his forehead tapped gently against hers and she was surrounded by his warmth. His bare toes curled into the sand, and for some reason she remembered the way his hands had felt on her feet, pressing into her with a calming touch that made her feel special.

  He touched her chin, and she obeyed his implicit command to look up and see the slow burn in his amber eyes. That tiny connection made her skin flush like she was standing too close to a fire. “Of course I came, partner.”

  He always made her feel special. And she’d made him feel unwanted. That hadn’t ever been her intent. “I just want you to be safe. I know you think this is a bad idea—”

  “Yeah. This is crazy. But let me decide how to keep myself safe. I’m not a damsel in distress.” He leaned in a fraction, and his hand moved from her chin to brush her hair over her shoulder as his eyes followed the movement. “I’m not even a damsel.” After another heated look that made her heart flutter, he pulled back, eyes shuttering as if he held tight to a secret, and headed through the gate. At the next gate he stopped and narrowed his eyes, staring ahead like it was a puzzle he had to figure out.

  Giselle followed him and lowered her voice. “It’s not that I don’t want you, I—” He barked a laugh, and her ears burned as she realized what that sounded like. “W-want you around. I want you around. I was just thinking that you shouldn’t pay for my mistakes. Like sending Macha here.”

  “What I shouldn’t have to do is text the hag to figure out where you’re at or try to interpret vague notes passed through intermediaries like we’re in middle school.” He shot her an inscrutable, narrow-eyed look, then rotated his drum around again. “Bass.” It became something the size of a child’s instrument, and he stared up at the roof of the cavern. “Ha-ha, Huehue. Try again.” An electric bass appeared. Was he going to play some more? That would be nice. Maybe they’d all calm down with a good song. “Time for my Flea impersonation,” he muttered in irritation.

  Impersonating a flea? What did that even mean? Whatever. She reached into her bag and grabbed the first plastic thing she found, then blushed when she realized she’d dropped a bag of tampons on the ground. Whatever. Not important. Making things right was important, not her own discomfort. “You mean more to me than money. You are...” She trailed off as Coyote dropped his skirt.

  The bass guitar covered his front—barely. But his ass was bare and gloriously sculpted. Don’t stare at his ass. Don’t... oh gods, he has a fine ass. Stop gawking and finish your sentence! She looked up toward the impossibly cavernous ceiling. “You’re, uh, smart and clever. And gorgeous...ly, gorgeously, uh...” handcrafted by the gods themselves. No, don�
�t compliment his naked body like an asshole. Find a real compliment. “...funny.” Gorgeously funny? Who says that?

  “Uh-huh,” he intoned, strolling toward the next gate and leaving her to try not to study the gliding muscular view. Try and fail. He glanced back over his shoulder and shot her a smug look. “What? You embarrassed because you dropped some tampons in front of me?” He turned back to the next gate, where everyone else—all with pieces missing from their wardrobes—stood waiting, gazes averted in a pretense of ignorance.

  Except her mother, who was... silently chortling like a teenager? Crazy woman.

  But everyone was missing at least something important, while she’d basically dumped trash out of her bag. She slowly approached her friends—and Osiris—and wondered if everyone was as angry at her as Coyote was.

  And how, exactly, she’d gotten into the position of having four people monumentally pissed at her yet show up to risk their lives for her anyway.

  The sixth gate opened, and four clothed people and a naked man with a well-placed bass faced the seventh and final gate into the lands of the dead. Giant creatures with the body of a lion and the head of a man were carved into the sides of each gate, as if watching over them. The ancient statuary gave her the shivers, and she approached her friends, wondering what they were going to find on the other side.

  Rawan-Sekhmet took off armbands, leaving her in a gauzy dress and a lioness mask. Bryn-Idunn removed her apron dress, leaving her in a shift. Osiris took off his decorated collar, leaving him in mummy wrappings. And Coyote stared at the doors.

  “Drum or weapon,” he said regretfully as he held out his obsidian dagger as if to drop it.

  She cleared her throat, hoping her help wouldn’t be repudiated with anger. “You have earrings.”

  He looked at her and blinked like that hadn’t occurred to him, and she guessed he didn’t normally have pierced ears. But Coyote had gauged ears with giant, colorful feather-and-bone earrings. “Not used to having those.” His sigh of relief made it worth the risk of getting yelled at—or whatever they were doing—as he reached up and fiddled with one side like he had no idea how to work an earring.

  “I could, uh...”

  He rolled his eyes and leaned down, letting her help. It took some doing—they were clearly not meant to be removed, and she was working around a bass guitar—but she finally managed to break one and slide it out. “Sorry...”

  He shook his head, then shot her a confused, hurt look before leaning the other way, giving her access to the other ear gauge. “Thanks.”

  Knowing now she had to break the interior channel, she got the second one out faster. “No problem.”

  Feeling stupid, she pulled a ball of yarn from her pouch and dropped it. Everyone had lost something of value... except her.

  As the wool hit the sand, the final doors slid back with an unnatural roar, announcing their arrival into the underworld.

  Chapter 11

  RAFAEL STEPPED AWAY from Freyja, trying to distance himself from the emotional riot she’d caused. He wanted to scream at her. Or bury his hands in her hair and press her body against his—preferably with her naked too. He’d been so worried, still was, but at least they’d gotten here in time and he could see her now. He squeezed his fist to keep himself from reaching for her.

  “Whoa...” Shawn said as he stepped onto the dusty pathway leading out of the channel of gates. “This feels good.”

  Did the underworld god feel more comfortable in the underworld than on the earth? It would make sense.

  Freyja followed him. One step on the gray dust and she grunted in pain—then lost her footing, dropping all the way into the land of the dead. Her face went pale as she crouched in a ball in the dirt, gasping in air like she couldn’t breathe.

  His anger evaporated in a rush of fear. Lunging to the side, he grabbed her hands but couldn’t seem to pull her back onto the land just inside the gates—it was like she was stuck in glue. “Osiris, can you step back?” he called, grabbing Mictlantecuhtli from his sheath with one hand as he kept the other connected to Freyja on the other side.

  Shawn tried to step back onto the living side of the gates, but he was pulled back. It wasn’t like he hit a wall, it was like he took a step onto the yellow sand past the gates and slid backward onto the gray.

  “I’m stuck!” he yelled, panic infusing his voice.

  Freyja continued to gasp for air, her face turning purple and her gaze going empty as she looked around her.

  “Mictecacihuatl,” he urged, kneeling down next to her. “Get her from your pouch.” He squeezed her hand as he cut his finger on the sharp edge of his own death god’s stone. “Look at me, Freyja. Stay with me.”

  Freyja caught his gaze and held it, still choking slowly.

  Bryn transitioned flawlessly back to Hekate and stepped across the barrier.

  “Wait!” Rafael cried—too late. Now they had three people stuck.

  Bryn reached into Freyja’s pack and pulled out a stone as Coyote felt his own energy transition from the bard to the god of the dead. Coyote was still there, just silenced under the new stone, like he was asleep, and Rafael thought, maybe, with some concentration, he could wake him up and make Mictlantecuhtli the silent one. The sensation of the sleeping god—his god—was a little uncomfortable, but it was worth it to be able to choose.

  Bryn sliced her daughter’s arm with the sharp edge of the Aztec stone, letting her blood run onto the obsidian. Freyja gasped and changed. Her hair turned dark and curled around her as her costume morphed to a scarlet and black flamenco-style gown. Roses blossomed in her hair as her face turned skeletal and white—as did her chest.

  She swallowed air, then whispered, “What’s happening?”

  Instead of the primitive skirt and bloody accoutrement of an Aztec death god, she appeared to be turning into the goddess’s later incarnation. “Santa Muerte,” he told her. In the style of the impeccably dressed skeleton La Catrina.

  She looked down at herself. “I’m dead!” Her strong voice came out breathy, which was pretty good considering she didn’t appear to have lungs anymore. He didn’t mean to stare at her chest, but usually the god costumes were costumes, not...

  No, it was elaborate paint that made her look like a skeleton underneath the fancy clothing. “Exquisite,” he muttered—for she was absolutely stunning with dark hair piled on her head and festooned with roses, and a culturally inaccurate flamenco dress that scooped low in the front and clung to her narrow chest and waist until it foamed out in a sea of ruffles.

  Her hand slapped across her chest, and his face heated as he looked away. “I wasn’t staring at your, uh... I was checking out the skeleton paint, trying to figure out how that, uh...” Fuck it, he’d been staring at her cleavage, on more display than he’d ever seen it. “You were staring at my ass a minute ago.”

  She lifted an eyebrow, glanced him up and down once pointedly, and turned away to look around her, hand still pressed to her chest.

  What was that for? He looked down at himself. His body was more gaunt than usual, like he’d been fasting for a shoot, but less six-pack and more skeletal. It was also dotted with blood. A necklace that seemed to be made of—gross—eyeballs encircled his neck and came down his chest. And now that he wasn’t so focused on Freyja, he realized with a disorienting burst of clarity that he could see in pretty much every direction—behind him, up to the sky, down to his feet. That could be useful if the extra processing wasn’t frying his focus. Worst of all, though, his normal white skirt had been replaced with what appeared to be a ragged, once colorful scarf wrapped around his ass and tied in the front. And he’d thought his skirt was small covering...

  “Really?” he muttered aloud. “She gets a nice dress, and I look like I died with two pesos and a hangover.”

  Freyja’s mother laughed low and heavy, like she was amused but not hysterical about it. Then she stepped back across the line and into the land of the living.

  He tipped his head at
her. “You can go back and forth? Why can’t they?”

  She narrowed her eyes in concentration as she straddled the line between worlds. Finally she managed, “Psychopomp.”

  The word rang a bell, like maybe he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t remember what it meant.

  Sekhmet, however, did remember. “Someone who guides the dead to the afterlife. Can you bring them back?”

  Hekate wrinkled her nose and grabbed her daughter’s, now Mictecacihuatl’s, arm. Together they tried stepping back over the line. Bryn-as-Hekate came across just fine, but Freyja-as-Muerte slid backward again, stuck in the land of the dead.

  “What do we do?” Shawn asked, voice full of panic.

  Rafael set his jaw and stepped into the land of the dead. As his foot fell into the dust, a dry wind picked up, sucking the moisture from his skin. Even with the discomfort, though, he felt a well of power come up through his feet. His god felt... maybe not comfortable, but powerful. “We do what we came here to do. If we can’t figure something else out, we take turns using the Hekate stone to cross back.”

  Sekhmet activated her chthonic godstone, and a moment later she too was wearing the flowing chiton of a Greek. But hers added a cloak, more jewelry, and other accoutrement of wealth. “Persephone goes back and forth every year.” She stepped across the line, then back into the land of the living. “I’m not stuck either. We can trade out Persephone as well.”

  Freyja-Muerte frowned. “We’ll just have to hope we’re not beating a hasty exit. That could get exciting.”

  Rafael nodded and took a look around. They’d entered a courtyard, the doorway on the Kur side flanked with another pair of ten-foot-tall stone lamassu. One path led to a giant temple or palace or something. Another road led to yet another closed gate and, he assumed, farther into the realm of the dead. “Hekate?”