by Jax Garren
She turned her head in the direction of the stage, and her face crunched up in confusion. As if drawn by the magic of the cheering crowd, she practically floated to the edge of the box and gazed out. When she turned back, her face was filled with wonder. “They are all here to see you?”
He pointed to the concert poster on the catering table. The image was stylized, but it wasn’t a terrible likeness. She picked it up and stared from the image to him.
“I have the power to make you worshipped in song again,” he promised. “But only if you leave me here.”
Her next breath was deep and intentional as she took in the arena and closed her eyes. He glanced at Bryn, who gave him a nod of approval, then crossed and uncrossed his fingers for luck. This was going to work.
Chapter 40
GISELLE SAT DEJECTEDLY on a catwalk as the opening act ground to a finale, their driving guitar rhythms swirling through the arena to the cheers of a pumped crowd. She should be down there in the crowd, happy and screaming, but she’d been prowling for hours with no sign of the galla that’d dumped a light on Rafael. Sekhmet was somewhere doing the same; a single galla was easy enough pickings that they’d split up. But neither of them had had any luck finding a single shadow in a dim, crowded arena. Go figure.
As Giselle had wandered, giving her plenty of time to contemplate, she’d kept coming back to the same thing. Why had a galla come after Rafael? It didn’t make any sense.
Unless...
Her heart fluttered and her mouth felt dry at a thought she hadn’t let herself contemplate. The disappointment would just be too fierce. But what if Rawan was right? Her theory made sense. The timing worked. What if Rafael was...
A quiver of movement across the catwalk grabbed her attention, and she hopped up, hand at her back to pull a weapon. A crow shot down from the rafters and spun in a circle ten yards in front of her.
Giselle groaned. “For real? I don’t have time for this!” Maybe she should’ve used Mictecacihuatl instead for her ability to float through things. And where was Coyote when she could seriously use his magical support? Not in a dressing room. Don’t even imagine it.
Holy shit, she was becoming hella dependent. And right here, right now, was why that was dangerous—she was less confident fighting without him. She pulled a throwing ax, determined to take on whichever piece of the Morrigan this was alone.
With a swirl of color the bird re-formed into Nemain, the new goddess, with her black-and-red streaked hair and ebony lips. Frowning, the woman stared at her, knees bent in a ready stance. She didn’t draw a weapon, though, and now that Giselle took a good look at her outfit, she didn’t seem to have one.
Weird.
Then she remembered the takedown the woman had given her. This Nemain was a martial artist. Hand-to-hand. Don’t get too close.
“What are you doing here?” Nemain asked, venom in her tone.
Giselle narrowed her eyes, debating what to do. If Nemain was here, at the concert, she might be a fellow Rioter. And Ande had picked her. Did they have to fight? She released the ax, letting it vanish, and showed Nemain her hands, trying to make herself look nonthreatening. “I was here to enjoy a concert—which I’m guessing you’re here for too—when I heard a galla demon tried to kill Rage Riot’s lead singer. Figured I’d take care of the problem before it got a second chance to drop something on Marquez’s head.”
Nemain didn’t relax, exactly, but she did lean back some, making her stance a little less “ready to jump your ass.” Her mask rose up with her brow, like she was surprised. “You’re a Riot fan?”
Giselle snorted at that stupid comment, still trying to lighten the mood. “Isn’t everyone?”
Nemain actually laughed and straightened up. “You’re really here for the show?”
“Uh, yeah, aren’t you?”
The crowd screamed appreciation as the opener shouted thanks into a mic. Huffing in frustration, Nemain turned to the railing to survey them, as if she’d given up the notion of fighting—for now, anyway. “Yes. That I am. How do you know about the galla?”
Giselle joined her, from a cautious few feet away, in another fruitless survey of the arena. The place was enormous. How did you find a single black shadow at a concert? Shit. She wrinkled her nose. Maybe she could use runes somehow. That seemed like something there would be a spell for, like Hekate’s purple light. She just didn’t know it. She still had so much to learn. “I’m afraid I brought it with me. My partner has to write a song for Ereshkigal, the Sumerian death goddess—the real one, not a conduit—or she’s going to drag us back to Kur. Meanwhile, she keeps sending galla to snatch us up early so he can’t complete the deal.”
Nemain got so still that Freyja turned to look at her. The woman was staring at her like she’d just spoken Greek, but her eyes were haunted and her breath shallow.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your partner? You mean... Huehuecoyotl?”
“Yeah.” Why was she so panicked? “This is all because of Macha and her power grab at the YMCA, by the way. I went to Kur to rescue that mass-murdering bitch—I mean, your partner—because your people, who’d thrown my mom in a hole, made me. Coyote followed me. Ereshkigal took a liking to him, and we barely got out of there.”
“Your partner, Huehuecoyotl, owes an actual goddess a song?” The idiotic new Nemain wasn’t even looking for the galla anymore, just staring at Giselle with her mouth slightly open, making Giselle wonder for her sanity—or intelligence.
“Yes. And she doesn’t want him to succeed, so she keeps sending demons. Also, she’s kinda pissed at me for getting him out.” Or that was what Giselle figured, anyway. Otherwise, why had Ereshkigal sent a galla after her at Rafael’s place? Unless it was there for Rafael because Rafael was... She shook the hopeful thought away. “Why is this so hard to process?”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
She sounded so horrified Giselle started laughing. “This is your major concern? Loki on a stick.” Two weeks ago she could’ve said “no” without hesitation. But now? “He’s not my boyfriend.” But maybe he would be one day? The thought was so strange.
“Do you... know who he is? Under the mask, I mean?”
Done with this conversation, Giselle narrowed her eyes at the box seats, trying to see if anyone there looked haunted by an inky demon thing. “No, so don’t even bother trying to get the info out of me. Now, if we’re done here, I have a galla to find. Are you on the same project, or are we fighting? I’m confused.”
“He’s...” she started, still sounding like she’d been somehow thrown for a serious loop.
“Can we fight later? I’d like to get this done so I can watch the show.” Still getting no response, she prompted, “Nemain!”
The woman stared at her for a moment, nonplussed, before saying, “Oh, that’s me.” She looked so confused Giselle actually felt bad for her.
Giselle tipped her head, contemplating, then took a few steps toward her, hands up in a sign of peace. “You know, we don’t have to be at odds. Macha attacked me—that’s why I sent her to Kur—plus she’s a racist, evil bitch who deserves to be a frog, but that’s not the point. Badb Catha and the old Nemain attacked a party, trying to steal Coyote’s godstone, which is why I fought them. I didn’t start a beef with any of the Morrigan. Maybe you’re not as crazy as they are. If so, I’m sorry you got stuck with those teammates. Ande is... well, Ande is a unique individual with her ups and downs, but if she picked you, then you probably have some good qualities.”
Nemain’s face screwed up. “I have to think about this. This is... shit.”
“What’s shit? I’m shit?”
“No! That.” Nemain pointed behind her.
Freyja took a step farther out of her reach and whipped around to where she was pointing at the box seats on the other side of the arena. A lone woman with... shit, a golden glow... leaned on the railing of a box, staring out at the scene with the shock of someone transported several thousand years into the fu
ture. “Why is Ereshkigal here?”
“Uh...” Nemain muttered. “That’s her, huh?”
There was only one explanation for why Ereshkigal would be at a Riot concert, and it made Giselle giddy with nervous joy. The thing she wanted most—that her idol and her partner were the same person, that the man she wanted above all actually liked her liked her—the totally impossible Cinderella dream for a girl like her... “Oh my gods. Rafael Marquez is—”
“Performing a song tonight that he co-wrote with Huehuecoyotl,” Nemain said, her voice as hollow and cold as Giselle suddenly felt.
Giselle blinked as the air went out of the room. “Huh?”
Nemain looked from the box to Giselle and back, then shook her head. “Yeah, Rafe threw a song in at the last minute. Said it was important.”
No, Rafael was Coyote, not friends with Coyote. That was the dream.
Which was why she was an idiot to let herself think it for even a moment. Desperately clinging to hope anyway, she demanded, “How would you know that?”
Nemain rubbed her face. “I work backstage for the Riot. Everyone had to scramble when he pulled this diva move, adding a song literally last week, but he confided in me what was going on. He knows I’m a conduit.”
There was a distance in her tone; she was lying about something. “Why would Rafael Marquez confide in...?” Wait.
Nemain had waist-length red hair with black streaks, the opposite of Lyssa’s short black hair with red streaks. Now that Giselle looked at her—really looked at her—the woman had the same strong jawline and high cheekbones, the same willow-thin but still athletic figure that rich girls with a personal trainer got. The same voice—friendly with a touch of condescension. The green of her eyes was a little brighter, and the red in her hair a more natural color, but now that she’d thought of it, the similarities were obvious. And hadn’t she read somewhere that Lyssa had a black belt in something?
Nemain didn’t work backstage for the band.
Oh, hell... She couldn’t fight Rafael’s sister! Giselle stuck her face in her hands. How had Lyssa Sanderson met Ande? They only had two things in common...
Was this a rich pothead thing? Holy crap, Ande had given Nemain’s godstone to her stoner buddy. “When do you have to be onstage?”
Nemain paled even further. “Onstage? Who said I—”
“Lyssa, cut the crap. When do you have to be back down there before Rafael—or somebody else—notices you’re missing? Wait, do you know Coyote? Like, who he is?”
Lyssa waved a hand. “We went to school together. There weren’t too many Hispanic kids at Wharton, so Rafe took him under his wing.”
Shit, that actually made sense. Rafael wasn’t Coyote—but they’d probably played together some in high school. Coyote was just another south Texas rich kid with a prep school education—the exact kind of person she was surrounded by at Zavala College. He was probably a junior or senior that she saw on campus sometimes. Maybe Lance was one of the guys Coyote had done cocaine with—hell, maybe Rafael was.
Lyssa’s face screwed up in frustration. “Who are you? Do you know Rafe?”
The world was not crumbling around her; it was exactly the same world it had been yesterday. She’d never really believed Coyote was Rafael. Right? Because she wasn’t that stupid. “Who I am doesn’t matter. Just, look, I’ve got no beef with you as long as you leave me and Coyote alone. Keep your stone. Ande must’ve chosen you for a reason—hopefully other than you like the same weed—”
“Hey! I have a black belt in Krav Maga, thank you very much.”
Giselle blinked. “You... Krav Maga?”
“Yeah. Get out your ax. I’ll kick your ass with my bare hands.” She dropped back down into position like she’d do just that, her expression way too belligerent when there was a goddess at her concert. “How’d you even get into the show? I thought you were some orphan kid Ande took in who ran away to shack up with your boyfriend.”
Giselle stomped her foot, trying to break the woman’s obsessive distraction. “Look, Bitchy McCrazy-face, we’re on the same side, trying to protect your lead singer from the fucking goddess over there. So we can catfight on a catwalk and you can go onstage with your pretty face all beat up while we hope no other lights go crashing down. Or we can not be idiots, then you play your show, and I go back to the nosebleed section with my friends to enjoy the concert. Probably while sending you dirty looks from the cheap seats, you snotty jerkass.” Cheap seats might’ve been a lie, but the rest of it was true—particularly the snotty jerkass part.
“Ethnic slur, why don’t you?”
“Huh?”
“Bitchy McCrazy-face? Because I’m an Irish goddess?” she asked with the sneer of someone who’s not in the least offended but knows she can call it out.
Giselle groaned. “That was uncalled for. I wish I was sorry.” She looked around the arena. “Is Coyote here?” Was it pathetic that she wanted to find him so badly?
Lyssa looked over the crowd, her face still full of shock. “He’s in the crowd. Somewhere.”
Giselle smacked the railing in frustration. “Why didn’t he friggin’ tell me he was doing this? He gets all furious at me for going to Kur without him, and he doesn’t tell me he’s got Rage Riot playing a fucking concert for Ereshkigal? Oh, Helheimr, I am giving him a piece of my mind.”
“He didn’t invite you to the show?” Why did she sound so damn pleased about that? Her snide tone grated something fierce.
And she had a point. Why hadn’t he? “Secret identities. We couldn’t go together.” But Coyote was dripping in money. If he could trick out a penthouse balcony like a high-dollar fight club, he could afford an extra ticket, even if it wasn’t near his. Maybe that was expecting a lot, but he’d kissed her last week and said he wanted her to be his girlfriend. Why wouldn’t he want her at the show to hear his song?
She scowled as another realization pissed her off even more. “Wait, the galla are targeting Rafael because he’s doing the song for Coyote!” So maybe the demon had been after Rafe in his condo that night—but not because he was Coyote, because he was helping that idiot. What would’ve happened if she hadn’t been there? “That dumbass almost got Rafael killed! Twice! And what’s with his whole, ‘Sure, I can write a song for a goddess.’ Rafael Marquez is writing it! I freaking hope that counts! That arrogant twit!”
Nemain was staring at her again, but her expression had grown significantly less hostile. “I think I might’ve heard a biased account of your antics. You’re not actually into him, are you? Like even fucking him or anything? Because sure, he’s nuts, but damn is he hot.”
Giselle shot her the “give me a break” look that deserved. “Focus please.” She whipped her phone out and sent a text: At the Riot concert. A galla went after Marquez. What did you do?
What would he tell her? Although, assuming he was somewhere in the arena, he wasn’t going to hear his phone over the opening band. Whatever. Lyssa might lie when it benefited her, but saying that they’d added a new song to the show at the last minute wasn’t the kind of lie a smart person told—Giselle and twenty-thousand-ish other people would witness in the next couple hours if there was something brand new.
Then a thought dawned on her that might explain Lyssa’s crazy obsession with her dating life. “Did Ande tell you I was hot for Coyote? She keeps acting like I left her because I’m blinded by ripped abs, not mad at her for failing to tell me a bunch of shit she should’ve told me. Huehue—the god—rolled his own damn godstone to Coyote when I dropped it fighting Macha. I didn’t give it to him. I just didn’t take it away from him like she wanted me to. I didn’t desert Andromeda for a... a fuck boy or something.”
Her phone buzzed with a response from the jerkface. Handling it.
Handling it... He was handling it? That was all he had to say? After making her feel so fucking guilty for going to Kur, and then after the fight across from EJ’s house where he was all self-righteous about being partners, that’s all she go
t? Rage got the better of her, and she texted, Fuck you asshole! sending it before she had a chance to change her mind.
Nothing came back.
“You okay?” Lyssa asked her with what sounded like genuine concern.
She stared at her phone, grinding her jaw. “What are we supposed to do?” She looked up at Lyssa, feeling a weird kinship with the woman who was also here to save the man Coyote had screwed. “How can I protect anyone if I have no idea what’s going on?”
Her phone rang. She considered not answering it, but she needed to know what to do about the fucking goddess hanging out in a box seat.
“What the hell was that about?” Coyote sounded like he had one nerve left and she was on it.
Well, maybe he should’ve, oh, included her to begin with. “When I went to Kur, you got so pissed at me for putting myself in danger and not telling you what my exact plan was and how to meet up. At least I let you know what I was doing! You’re putting other people in danger and didn’t even bother to inform me you had a freaking plan!”
He groaned, and then had the fucking audacity to ask, “What plan?”
“Rafael Marquez?”
“What?” His voice came out in a panicked half whisper.
“He’s writing Ereshkigal’s song for you and playing it tonight at his concert?”
“Uh... huh?”
“And now galla are dropping things on Rafael’s head instead of yours?”
“Shiiiii...”
“Yeah, shit. You wanna get other people killed so you can pretend you wrote a song?”
“Are you here? At the show?”
“Yeah, looking for a galla haunting the light grid, and what do I see? A death goddess in a private box!”
“Where are you, still in the light grid?”
“Yeah, just over the second stage, debating whether I should put an arrow through Ereshkigal or not. I got a pretty good shot from up here.”
“Don’t! Wait... just... hold up.”
He hung up. She glared at the phone.
“What’s going on?”