by Jax Garren
They’d used the Book of Conduits to do some research into each god. Sekhmet read a different form of Arabic than the book was written in, which meant she could piece together bits of what was said, the same way he could piece together some Italian because of its similarity to Spanish. With plenty of time and a dictionary, he imagined she could do the whole book, but with only a few hours, she’d done the best she could to give them each a few pointers.
Hekate, goddess of witchcraft—among other things—could cast locater spells, which was what he guessed Bryn was doing now. She drew a sigil in the dirt, then unclipped a small lantern from her belt and held it up. A purple fire ignited, and she pointed toward the temple.
Great. Nothing like heading toward the seat of power when you were trying to get in and out quickly and quietly.
The temple-palace-fancy-building-thing rose high in the air—maybe not New York tall, but easily Malverde tall—and impressive for something that appeared to be made out of sand. Six square tiers, each smaller than the one before, were stacked on top of each other, giving the impression of a matryoshka doll. A giant staircase took visitors straight to the third tier, a good six or so stories in the air.
“Who’s for not taking the ‘Hi, I’m here’ staircase?” he asked.
The entire party raised their hands. Without discussion, the five of them, gloomy in their death garb—except Persephone, who looked like spring in the desert—kept to the wall as they headed for the grand structure instead of taking the straight path through the eerily empty courtyard.
“Anyone know anything about this place?” Shawn asked.
Rafael shook his head. Sekhmet and Shawn had been too busy figuring out stones while he’d contained Bryn, made sure everyone was fed, and did the best he could to reassemble the room. There hadn’t been time for research into Kur itself.
Freyja-Muerte surprised him by clearing her throat. “Ande gave me a primer, and I did research last night. Ereshkigal rules the land, and while she’s proud—don’t be snarky to her—she’s not so bad. Her husband, Nergal, though, is a terrifying asshole who kills people on a whim. He’s not like a cannibal or anything; he just gets mad and breaks things—and people—and doesn’t feel bad about it later. We may run into either Dumuzid or Geshtinanna, a brother and sister who each spend half the year here, trading off for each other. Dumuzid is a shepherd god and works like the Persephone of Sumerian mythology, except instead of fall, he goes down to the underworld in the summer, causing everything to die when the sun gets too hot. Like in Texas. Geshtinanna keeps the list of names of everyone here. So... if she’s present, we want to avoid her so we don’t end up on her roster.”
“What are they like?” Shawn asked.
“I don’t know much about Geshtinanna, other than she worked really hard to keep her beloved brother from the underworld. But Dumuzid is an interesting guy. He’s Ishtar’s husband, and he ended up down here after Ishtar came back from the underworld to find that instead of mourning her, he was cavorting with shepherdesses. She got so mad she sent him down here to take her place but eventually missed him so much she told Geshtinanna to split the time with him so he could come back up and be her husband again for six months out of the year.”
Tired of the gloom, Rafael snorted. “He must be really good in bed.”
Sekhmet-Persephone—Sekh-sephone?—let forth a surprised burst of laughter like she was both amused and shocked, and he winked at her. She looked him up and down quickly, like she liked what she saw, then blushed and faced forward.
Hell, if he was going to march around half-naked for the rest of his life, at least some people appreciated it.
“Girl!” Freyja-Muerte admonished her friend. “I’m going to tattle on you.”
Sekh-sephone turned huge eyes on her. “No, you’re not. I’m in the freaking underworld for you. You are going to knit me three pairs of socks and keep your mouth as shut as a vault in Langley.”
The pale white of Mictecacihuatl’s skeletal visage turned just a hint of pink. “You didn’t have to come.”
Her friend scoffed but said in a friendly enough voice, “And if I’d been sent to the underworld, what would you do?”
Rafael watched his partner with interest to see what she’d say, while keeping far enough away not to intrude on their conversation. Her blush darkened further before she said, “Come get you, of course.”
“And you think I wouldn’t do the same because...?”
“Because this isn’t your job.”
The woman leaned in. “Haven’t you noticed that I want it to be?”
“But why? You have a great life.”
Sekh-sephone shook her head, her mouth pursed tightly. “I don’t have to justify myself to you. If we’re friends, you need to accept my decisions. I don’t judge you. I expect the same respect from you.”
Good line. Maybe Rafael should try it.
From atop the temple, a commotion caught their attention. Trumpets blared as a small procession headed out toward the staircase. A woman came forward to the very edge of the third tier. She wore a linen shift that left her shoulders bare, and she had dark dreadlocks that reached down to her butt. Gems shone on her wrists and ankles and from a giant necklace. On her head were the same stacked tiers of bones that Neti and Ishtar wore—the helm of the Sumerian gods.
“Ereshkigal,” Rafael whispered as the group gathered as close to the wall as they could—not that that was much help in an empty courtyard.
The goddess surveyed the area around her, hand up to her face like she was shielding her eyes from the nonexistent sun, and picked them out easily. “Come on up,” she said, startling Rafael with her perfect English.
Maybe real gods could speak all languages.
The group of not-so-sneaky conduits looked at each other, seeking some sort of community decision. Rafael surveyed the palace walls again; so far he hadn’t seen anything resembling an entrance that wasn’t also the grand staircase.
“Open the gates,” Ereshkigal announced, and the giant door leading farther into the underworld began to slowly slide inward. Ereshkigal smiled at them with bloodred lips. “The gidim, the residents of my kingdom, rely on the libations of the living for their sustenance. We here in Kur have been abandoned by the world and left alone and starving for far too long. You appear to have enough liquid inside you to feed dozens. My gidim will smell your blood and come rushing through the gates. I recommend coming up here so we can... chat. Unless you fancy being slurped up like waterskins.”
“What is she talking about?” Rafael asked the group.
“Uh...” Freyja-Muerte started hesitatingly. “I read that there’s no water here, so the only way the dead can drink is if the living pour liquid on their graves, which, I’d assume, probably hasn’t happened much in the last several thousand years.”
Sekh-sephone raised her brow in surprise. “So they’re going to...”
The doors opened enough that a few gray, emaciated figures came crawling through. Their skin appeared so dry and brittle they almost looked like insects.
“That’s disgusting,” Shawn stated. “But they don’t look that tough.”
One wailed a dry-throated cry, and it echoed like a rattle throughout the courtyard. Rafael’s neck hair rose at the noise. “Maybe we should...” He pointed to the stairs.
Then more figures came, most crawling, some walking, all with a mean hunger in their eyes.
Freyja-Muerte reached behind her, then announced as if wildly affronted, “I don’t have any weapons. What can this goddess do? Walk in high heels?”
Sekh-sephone grabbed her hand. “I say you use that skill to run up the steps to Ereshkigal. Ready?”
More and more of the dead husks—the gidim—came stumbling through, each one focused entirely on the living with ravenous intent. And they seemed to be picking up speed. “Go!” Rafael yelled, shoving Freyja-Muerte and Sekh-sephone toward the temple. “Now!”
Chapter 12
SEKH-SEPHONE TOOK OFF
, Freyja-Muerte in tow, and Freyja-Muerte grabbed her mother’s hand, starting a chain up the side of the temple. Good.
Shawn, though, stared at the approaching horde, a calculating light in his eyes. Rafael gave him a push toward the temple, and he moved, still hesitating. “I may be able to do something.”
Another hoarse cry went up from the dead, this one joined by others in a cacophony of dry-throated noise that should not come from human vocal cords. Rafael cringed, and Shawn—thank the gods—ran. Rafael took off after him, up the long-ass flight of stairs. Thank gods I work out. “Do what?”
“I...” Osiris looked back down. “Never mind. There are too many.”
As they hit what would probably be the second story, the restless dead made it to the stairs. “Keep going!” Rafael yelled up at the team. But Bryn wasn’t going to make it. She was already bending over, out of breath, as the mindless gidim plowed forward inexorably. Freyja tried to help her, but she was wobbling on Mictecacihuatl’s heels. Maybe walking in heels wasn’t her goddess’s talent.
Rafael grabbed Bryn and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, then paused to regain his balance on the narrow steps.
“You can’t—” Freyja-Muerte started, real fear in her expression.
“Go!” he ordered. Turning back, he used one of Mictlantecuhtli’s cooler powers and sent a wind of blades down the temple steps. A few of the gidim fell off the staircase, but more kept coming. He turned, braced himself, and started jogging up the stairs, his thighs protesting with every weighted step. “My trainer will be proud. My trainer will be proud.”
“What are you muttering about?” Freyja-Muerte was suddenly beside him.
“I’m counting this”—pant, pant—“as my workout for”—pant, pant—“the day.”
She gazed at him with such gratitude, he decided he should run up more staircases carrying her mother with the thirsty dead in pursuit. “I would not have made it through this without you. I wouldn’t have made it through the past twenty-four hours without you. Thank you for coming. I can’t...”
She looked positively weepy for a moment, and he forgave her for everything. “It’s cool. We’re good.” I love you. Let’s make out. No, wait...
“No, we’re not,” she said, her words coming out more breathless as they headed farther up. “I’m not used to working with people. You were right. I shouldn’t have come here alone. It was reckless and thoughtless. I thought I was protecting you, but I was just being stupid. I’m not used to having anyone I can rely on. Forgive me? You can just nod. You don’t have to talk while carrying my mom.”
He bit his tongue because he wanted to make an ass of himself declaring his love for her on the steps of an underworld temple while wearing nothing more than eyeballs and a scarf. He laughed, just a little, then sucked in air. Then his right butt cheek stung, and Freyja-Muerte yelled, “Bryn!” in the most horrified tone.
“Did she just smack me on the ass?”
Freyja-Muerte cringed. “Sorry!”
“Hurry,” Bryn said.
Freyja-Muerte looked behind them. “Shit!”
His quads burned like a mother, but he pressed forward, forcing himself to move.
His partner took off her shoes and wielded them like weapons.
“Come on!” he yelled back at her. “I didn’t come here for you to die on a staircase.” Pain knifed his lungs as he took another ragged breath. He was going to die on the staircase. At least they’d die together.
No, fuck that. He had a new album to write—a better one—and an amazing woman to convince to go out with him. “Freyja, get your ass up here!”
Sekh-sephone and Shawn were already struggling up to the dais where Ereshkigal waited, and he wasn’t entirely sure that was moving toward safety.
But it was moving toward not immediately being trampled and eaten by a raging horde of dead people, so... good enough for now? He had a hard time believing, though, that Ereshkigal had their best interests at heart.
When he finally got within twenty steps of the end of the epically long staircase, Ereshkigal smiled victoriously and stamped her foot. The echo of her heel ricocheted off the surrounding walls and sent a blast of air rumbling down the temple. Rafael’s feet lost their traction, and he found himself falling backward.
Freyja-Muerte grabbed his arm, pulling him forward again, which sent him teetering toward the temple—better than tumbling to his death, but still a face full of bone-crushing rock. Freyja-Muerte dropped backward onto her ass. With that incredible reaction time she had, his partner grabbed his head and the shoulder nearest her mother’s head, pulling him into her chest and shoving his shoulder away, thereby forcing her mother’s head into the air and protecting both of their faces.
And sticking his nose into her cleavage. All the fear and frustration he’d been feeling toward her recklessness roared to life, and he wanted to wrap her up in his arms. Her skin felt wonderful. Somehow, despite everything, she managed to smell wonderful—like snow and fire at the same time.
Bryn struggled, and he let her go. She slid onto her butt on the temple steps. Freyja-Muerte stayed seated, a look of relief on her face, and he just let himself rest for a moment pressed against her chest, trusting that if she was staring down the steps with no tension, Ereshkigal’s pounding footstep had taken care of the approaching gidim.
Wait, he could see behind him, if he could just figure out how to focus that way... except all the eyeballs, like his brain, seemed to be trained on Freyja-Muerte’s plunging neckline. It was a far more appealing view than down the temple.
“Coyote?” she said, a question in her tone.
“Yes?” he drawled in response. Somehow she must be convinced to lounge like this under completely normal circumstances, like alone together in the lair while watching TV. He didn’t want it to take traveling to hell or being surrounded by an army of the damned to touch her. “Are we about to be eaten?”
She laughed, and he felt the rippling movement of her diaphragm against his cheek. “No. But we have a few more steps to get up before we face a goddess of death. You ready?”
“No,” he answered, burying his face a little more into her cleavage. But he put his palms on the rock steps of the temple and pushed away until he could look her in the eyes. “Let’s go anyway.”
He hopped up and offered her his hand. To his surprise, she took it and allowed him to help her up. Bryn snickered and continued up the stairs at a sedate pace.
For the first two steps, Freyja’s hand stayed in his, then she squeezed him and let go, continuing up without touching.
Before he could wonder too much what was going through her head, Ereshkigal asked, “Which one of you entertained my galla?”
Everyone turned to him, except Bryn, who asked coolly, “Why do you wish to know?”
He took the last step onto the platform. “Me.” Not like he could hide it with amateur spy hour around him.
Ereshkigal clapped her hands. “Excellent. You shall entertain me. And if you do so, I will grant you a boon. And if you do not...” She looked back to the temple at the summit, where a line of torches led toward a dark chamber. “Well, maybe you just need more time to practice.” Her gaze returned to him, and she looked him up and down. “I’ve got nothing but time, and it’s been a while since anyone’s amused me.”
A sinking feeling filled his stomach, and he laughed uncomfortably at the sad tone of her voice. She was being completely honest. He’d bet money, or possibly his life, that she would keep them here to suspend her boredom. It wasn’t a great time to offer him a boon in exchange for entertainment, either—he was wheezing and out of breath, not exactly ready to sing.
Freyja-Muerte stepped in front of him, looking all sorts of worried. “We’re just here to get Macha. You know, the one I amused you with by sending her down here to liven things up a bit?”
The goddess shot his partner a look. “That was... briefly entertaining. But my husband finds her far more interesting than I do.”<
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“Oh...” Freyja-Muerte said, her face turning whiter.
Great. Rafael shook his head. He had a choice. He could be obsequious and try to win her approval, but while he generally tried to be nice, kissing ass wasn’t really his thing—especially with someone fickle. She wanted to be entertained, something he could provide, given a few minutes to recover. That meant he had power. He shrugged, trying to look casual, even if he was anything but calm inside. “Sure, I’ll play for you, but only on the condition that we leave afterward—with what we came for.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed dangerously at him. “You are a brazen one, aren’t you?”
He didn’t take the bait, just grinned at her like he had no shame.
She strode toward him, circling him like he was for sale as her gaze traveled everywhere. Used to being on display, he let her, feigning a nonchalance he didn’t feel.
“Hey!” Freyja-Muerte said, offended for him.
Grateful, he gave her a small smile but shook his head to stop her interference. It wasn’t the first time somebody had judged his talent by the shape of his ass. Wouldn’t be the last. It made him feel dirty, but he’d gotten good at the grin-and-preen, because it got him what he wanted.
When her pointed fingernail traced his hip where the skimpy scarf met skin, he clenched his jaw. To his amusement, Freyja-Muerte looked like she’d break the woman’s hand, and that was enough to make him relax.
Her finger came to a rest at the bone right below his waist. “What if you aren’t as impressive as you think, hmm? I do not grant favors for poor work.”
He looked her right in the eye. “I’m good—I stopped an army of galla with a guitar. If you’re not entertained, that’s your fault, not mine.”
Half his party looked shocked at his behavior, but his partner pursed her very red lips like she was hiding a smile. Sometimes they got each other.
Behind Freyja, her mom wore the exact same expression. Interesting.
“I’ll need my other form, though,” he said. “Huehuecoyotl carries my instruments. Do you have the power to keep me from sucking air like I’m going to keel over at any moment? It’s hard to sing when I can’t breathe.”