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

by Jax Garren

  Giselle shot her partner a look like he’d lost his mind—pretty much par for the course with them. “Uh... peace? We’re ten feet from a brewing gang fight.” And crouched in an alley beside their favorite restaurant. Mercedes, the owner, was counting on them to do something—her nephew was out there. Their mission was to stop the fight, then collar that idiot for her.

  She pulled her chainmail away from her chest, like usual feeling as if she was going to die of a heatstroke. The magic that allowed her to channel the powers of Freyja, Norse goddess of war—and other things that she was less adept at—was a miraculous wonder, which unfortunately, came with hot-as-hell Viking war garb. And it was September in south Texas. Beside her, her partner sported a white skirt, like the Aztec god he was, and no shirt, revealing a to-die-for chest and abs. He wasn’t thrilled with how near-naked he was when he transformed into Coyote any more than she was thrilled with how uncomfortably hot and heavy leather pants, a tunic, leather-and-chainmail armor, and a bronze helmet were. The gods must have some wacky senses of humor.

  Coyote chuckled, his own sense of humor intact as always. “The fight hasn’t started yet—we still have peace. Plus, I’m thinking since the police are on the way, we might want to get a move on before they get here, call ACE to nab our asses, and send us to the special prison.”

  Anti-Conduit Enforcement usually stuck to larger cities, but word on the street was agents had been sniffing around Malverde lately. Giselle blew out a nervous breath. She couldn’t hear the sirens yet, but Coyote—Huehuecoyotl, Aztec god of music; she had no idea who was beneath the coyote-shaped half-mask—seemed to have unreal senses. If he said the police were on their way, they were. And with or without ACE, they’d probably be more concerned with sweeping up two conduits—people illegally channeling gods, even if they were doing it to help people—than they would be the gang members.

  She and Coyote should get a move on before that happened. “Okay... so show of force? See if we can scare them into leaving?”

  Coyote held his hand up for a fist bump. “We got this. Can you grab Cristian? I won’t have hands.”

  She snorted, wondering what animal he intended to transform into. “I’ll get him.” She spotted the nervous-looking kid toward the side of a group that postured like rival football players before a championship game. Except they had guns.

  She put a hand on Coyote’s arm, suddenly worried. “Don’t get shot again, okay?” It’d been through his thigh—not deadly—and her mother had used goddess magic to patch him up, but the thought of him getting shot again terrified her.

  He snorted. “Uh, no. It’s your turn to get shot.”

  She nodded and stood, ready to head out there. “All right.”

  Grabbing her arm, he yanked her back around to see his horrified expression. “I’m kidding! Don’t you dare get shot! I’m not the one who can resurrect people.”

  She wrinkled her nose, weirded out by the reminder that her necklace, Brisingamen, could indeed bring the recently dead back to life. That was definitely going to have some consequences down the road, she just had no idea what they’d be.

  Consequences she’d take without question to bring Coyote back. She wasn’t exactly sure where they stood after that ridiculously amazing kiss the other night. At the very least, he was her partner and friend. But maybe...

  She shook her head to dislodge the distraction. Escalating trash talk on the street made it sound like the fight was about to begin. Huffing out a breath, she held her pinky finger up. “How about nobody gets shot? Let’s go!”

  He quickly wrapped his pinky around hers and then released in the silly way they promised each other, and they charged into the street.

  “Stop!” Coyote ordered. “Or the wrath of the gods will be upon you.”

  A giggle almost escaped her at that ludicrous pronouncement. But the men and too many boys on either side of them hesitated.

  Great axes, Giselle thought to the magic holster on her back. But light enough to carry one-handed. She wasn’t sure if that level of specificity would work or not, but to her delight, when she reached behind her, she drew two giant axes that were far more impressive-looking than they were practical. She had no desire to hurt anyone, just stop the fight.

  She twirled one and struck a dramatic pose, feeling like a valkyrie. Sure enough, the men nearest to her backed up, their weapons lowering as their eyes widened in fear.

  On the other side, someone yelled in Spanish, something she thought might translate to a cuss-laden “We’re not afraid of you,” but her Spanish wasn’t that great. Coyote, who was fluent, answered something back, then transformed into a freaking grizzly bear.

  One roar, and the men screamed like children, scrambling away as fast as they could. Giselle spotted Mercedes’s nephew, dropped her axes—which immediately disappeared—and sprinted for him. Reaching out, she snatched the back of his shirt and yanked, bringing him back to her.

  Coyote lumbered over to them, murder in his eyes. Knowing it was all show, Giselle held Cristian still until Coyote was in front of them. He gave a roar in the face of the quivering teen, his fangs dripping saliva, and Giselle smelled piss.

  Her partner transformed back and grabbed the boy’s shirt by the collar, chewing him out in Spanish as Mercedes bolted from her restaurant, movements frantic. She grabbed Giselle’s hand, giving her a grateful smile. “Once again, you’ve saved my family.”

  Uncomfortable with the praise, Giselle’s cheeks heated as she stammered, “It was Coyote, he, uh, well... Thanks for letting us know so we could come. Anytime. It’s what we, uh, do.”

  That just made Mercedes smile harder, and she grabbed her nephew by the ear, taking up the Spanish haranguing.

  “Hey,” Coyote said. “Do I get a place on the altar now? She’s got a popsicle stick. I want a guitar pick.”

  Freyja wrinkled her nose at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Mercedes’s brow lifted. “Maybe you’ll get one when your humility equals your competence.” She patted Freyja on the shoulder, her other hand still firmly attached to her nephew’s ear. “This one could use a little more confidence.” The look she shot him said he could use a little less.

  Freyja tried not to laugh. And failed. Mercedes wasn’t wrong.

  As the chef dragged Cristian off into the restaurant, back to yelling at him, Coyote fake pouted. “Sick burn.” He threw an arm over Giselle’s shoulder. “Why are you laughing? You think my confidence is sexy.”

  She punched him in the chest, and he rubbed the spot. “Oh, mi diosita, you wound me.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She hadn’t hit him that hard. The sirens came into her range of hearing, which meant they were pretty damn close.

  They ducked into a different alley, this one beside an apartment complex, and snuck through the courtyard. Most of the residents in the South Chavez neighborhood knew them—or at least of them—and weren’t going to snitch.

  The night was still pretty young, and she wasn’t quite ready to leave Freyja yet. The magical connection that flowed through her when she was channeling a higher power thrilled her, especially now that she had someone to do it with.

  Well, not do it. Do... this. Channeling. Helping people. Pagan superheroing. Not the other do it. It was hard enough navigating their partnership. She was cautious and accustomed to working alone. He was reckless and trusting. They made a weird combo, but she was learning to appreciate his joie de vivre.

  And they’d made out a few days ago.

  Awkward. “So you, uh...” she started, then blushed.

  He grinned, his coyote-amber eyes glimmering mischievously when she stopped. “I what?”

  They reached the YMCA, where they’d had another southside adventure, as the sirens grew more distant behind them. Their Harleys, provided by Coyote’s ample and generous bank account, were parked in the lot. She pulled off her Viking helmet to shove into the pouch on her belt. The little hourglass-shaped sucker shouldn’t hold a helmet, but any items she cou
ld fit past the head-sized opening went... somewhere, allowing her, along with all the Freyjas before her, to keep all sorts of things in a bag smaller than most purses. Most of the contents were from previous holders of the godstone, a pretty amusing legacy of random crap including sunglasses and chewing gum, journals and spare change—even a couple outfits.

  Battle helmet stashed, she cleared her throat, taking strength from the sight of her black motorcycle—his gift to her so she didn’t have to “bike to crime” as he’d put it after he’d realized a bicycle was her only mode of transport. Superheroics were harder when you were broke.

  She leaned against it, trying to look casual and cool—like he always did. “So, you promised you’d teach me how to make micheladas. Want to head back to the lair and, uh...” Her bravado failed her again as he looked at her, his expression going weirdly blank.

  He pulled his latest model phone out of the ancient-looking pouch around his neck, and his face screwed up like he was asking for patience from heaven.

  She ducked her head, realizing she shouldn’t have asked. He’d warned her he had a really busy week. She was asking too much, pushing things too fast, and maybe after the other night he’d rethought his feelings and just wanted to be friends.

  That’s what she’d said all along! You don’t date your coworkers, and you really don’t date the coworker who you only see for an hour or so a day while committing the godstone felony and have no clue what his real name is. But he was funny and generous and seriously hot, and his overt affection had been a nice ego stroke for a girl who’d spent her life receiving constant rejection as a foster kid.

  But they were coworkers. And friends... probably? Whatever it was, she did not want to fuck it up. Unfortunately, she had mad skills at screwing up relationships.

  Coyote finally opened his eyes with a pained look. “I can’t. I...” He rubbed his forehead. “Fuck... uhh...”

  Yeah, she shouldn’t have asked. “No! It’s okay! You have a life. And you should go live your life. I’m cool. I’ve got plenty to do. Plenty.” Not really. Maybe she should catch up on her reading for English class? Ugh, but that meant reading, which was fun when it was a romance novel but ass when it was Pilgrim’s Progress.

  She could just ignore English and read a romance novel.

  “Tomorrow?” Coyote asked, sounding hopeful. “It’ll be Tuesday—the perfect night for debauchery. I can make sure we have all the supplies.”

  “Tuesday’s the perfect night for...?” Debauchery. Excitement and nerves took up equal residence under her skin. Maybe this was a bad idea. Alone in the lair. With shirtless Coyote. Experimenting with alcohol... For someone who wanted to take it slow, she’d had a bad idea. “Uh, could I bring Sekhmet?” Her roommate at Zavala College—real name: Rawan, not that Coyote knew that—and possibly their new teammate.

  Coyote blinked like that surprised him, and she realized she’d made another faux pas. Rawan hadn’t been to the lair, a fancy condo where they met up, and as Coyote was the one who owned it, it was his place to invite people there, not hers. But after a brief hesitation, he nodded decisively. “Yeah. Bring her.” He tipped his head like he was thinking. “Does she drink?”

  It was Giselle’s turn to hesitate. “No, not really. Is there an alcohol-free michelada? Or... halal...? I don’t know halal rules. Or if she’s even halal. Er, practices halal? Do all Muslims do halal?” Was she even using the word correctly? Ugh... Ignorance, thy name is Giselle.

  The confusion on his handsome face that her attempts at socializing had created disappeared into laughter and dimples. She loved his dimples. “I have no idea. Ask her and text me. We’ll have Sekhmet-appropriate beverages.” He shook his head ruefully. “Debauchery of the sober and platonic variety. Huehue’s howling in protest.”

  “Huehue” was how he referred to his god, who seemed to be awfully talkative. Freyja never talked to Giselle. She’d have to ask Rawan if Sekhmet communicated with her. Giselle changed the subject, worried this might be too charged. “So, what’re you up to tonight? Hot date with regularly defined debauchery?” she joked.

  He threw a leg over his motorcycle and drummed on the handlebars, looking her up and down with what she wanted to think was longing. But his words belied her wishful thinking, throwing cold water on her warming feelings. “Oh yeah, studying biology tonight.” His tone dripped innuendo, and Giselle hung onto a smile that was suddenly brittle as crystal while everything inside her protested in jealousy. It was the first time he’d ever talked about dating as his real self, and all sorts of catty retorts jumped to her tongue.

  No, not fair. She could be... studying biology... with him if she wanted—he’d made that clear. But she’d said no. So she had to let him see other people—other people in his real life, as his real self. Dates he could turn into girlfriends.

  Uuuuuuggggh. Coyote, married with kids. The thought made her chest feel tight as fear of his inevitable abandonment shifted her breathing to high and shallow.

  She forced her next inhalation to slow down. She wasn’t losing her partner just because he had a social life outside of her. Besides, if Rafael Marquez asked her out, she’d take him up in a heartbeat—but she’d still work with Coyote. Their partnership wouldn’t be dead just because she was seeing someone. He would do the same for her, right?

  But fear of abandonment was a longstanding glitch in her matrix—the number of homes she’d passed through over the years had ensured that. Coyote developing an attachment to someone else brought it out so painfully she could taste metal on her tongue. Before panic made her say or do something stupid, she reached out, slapping him convivially on the shoulder, even as her insides protested with the nauseous energy of bad fish. “Have fun.”

  He gave her a half-hearted smile, his lips parting like he’d say something, and finally he did. “Thrill a minute.”

  It sounded hollow. They stared at each other for a moment, and she wanted to scream at him that he couldn’t kiss her last week and fuck some other girl tonight. But... he totally could. He’d asked for an exclusive relationship. He’d asked if they could sleep together. She’d said she wasn’t ready for either. Well, that meant she had to be okay with him finding someone who was.

  Finally he slapped his handlebars again, started the motorcycle, and shoved on his helmet. “Well, I should—” He pointed forward. “See you tomorrow, mi diosita.”

  She started her own bike and reminded herself to keep breathing. “See you tomorrow.” He gave her a salute and peeled out of the lot like the devil was chasing him.

  No devil. Just her invitation. Dammit.

  She tried not to dwell on disappointment as she shoved her own motorcycle helmet on. The Bluetooth headset embedded in it automatically connected to her cell—Coyote was really into his gadgets—and beeped an incoming message. Before she took off, she checked her phone. Rawan.

  Done? Trouble on campus. Bring Coyote.

  She hit the button to call her friend and accelerated toward Zavala College, a small but exclusive university at the heart of Malverde, Texas.

  Rawan picked up almost immediately, her voice excited. “Got my message I take it?”

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Some guys coming back from Mercado got attacked by a woman they say had talons for fingers.” Mercado Street was the party area of town for the college crowd, a long but doable walk from campus where dozens of bars were open every night of the week. “One of them got his face scratched up pretty badly. They think that was her main intent—mutilating him.”

  Ick! “Think it was a conduit?” Sekhmet had claw-tipped fingers, so it stood to reason other conduits could, too.

  “Maybe? Probably. One of the guys—who was drunk off his rump, so grain of salt and all that—claimed she had feathers. He called her a ‘bird-woman.’”

  “Shit. The Morrigan?” Bad news in triplicate, three conduits of Irish battle goddesses hellbent on war and destruction... although one of them was currently a frog, courtesy of Gi
selle’s mother. Giselle grinned at the memory. That would never get old.

  But they could all become crows, which would match the “bird-woman” description.

  “No. The rest of what he said doesn’t match—lank, dark hair, waif-thin, black eyes, street clothes. But she could be some other bird-linked goddess.”

  It did sound like she had conduit potential, except, “Street clothes... Do you know of any conduits who aren’t stuck in fantasy archaic wear?” Their outfits weren’t very authentic, from a historical costuming perspective, but they did tend to be dramatic. Gods liked flair, she supposed.

  “No. That’s the weird part. Although I guess they could’ve changed clothes. Y’all do that when you’re in planning mode, right?”

  “True.” She’d never considered going on a mission in a T-shirt instead of her battle gear, but it would be possible. “What about a mask?” she asked. All conduits wore masks—hers was a delicate gold that molded to the upper half of her face, an oddly pretty accompaniment to the rest of her bulky battle gear. It was the only part of a conduit’s costume that couldn’t be removed, so if the bird-woman was a conduit, she’d have one on.

  “He didn’t say one way or the other, but I wondered if that’s what he meant by ‘black eyes.’ I don’t know. Maybe it’s something else, I just don’t know what else there is to be.”

  Giselle pondered that for a moment. “I guess if magic and gods are real...” What other myths and legends could be wandering around that no one knew about? Yet.

  Rawan blew out a heavy breath. “I’m going to channel Sekhmet and scout around. I can meet you by the library. What time can y’all be here?”

  Giselle grimaced, smooshing down the drama rioting inside her. “Just me. Coyote’s busy with...” Oh, it was Rawan, she could pout. “He’s got a date! He’s trying to get laid tonight! So he dashed his ass off after we broke up the gang fight, running off to his potential girlfriend or whatever. Am I allowed to hate her? That’s not fair, is it? I don’t care. I’ve never met her, but she’s awful and I hate her.”