Freya

by Matthew Laurence

  “Remind me never to piss you off,” he says, taking a little step back.

  “I promise the beatings will be gentle,” I grunt from under Dionysus’s weight.

  We move toward the loading dock exit I was trying to make a break for earlier. “Where is everyone?” Nathan asks as we pad through deserted hallways, leaving ripples of wine in our wake.

  “He must’ve done something to clear them out. He’s supposed to be the life of any party, so maybe he can be the death of them, too. How’d you get here, anyway?”

  “I got tired of waiting for you in the parking lot. Then I noticed the employee buses had stopped running, so I decided to leave the car and jog over to the tunnel entrance.”

  “You’re not supposed to do that, you know.” Disney’s pretty strict about that sort of thing.

  He shrugs. “Yeah, but it felt like the thing to do. Something was just … off. I didn’t like the feeling, and then, when I saw what looked like blood pouring out of the back doors, I went inside for you.”

  I nod. Since he’s my closest worshipper now, it looks like we’re starting to link up a bit. It’s not surprising. He probably got a twinge of emotional feedback from me as I was freaking out earlier. It’s likely what protected him from whatever compulsion Dionysus used to clean the place out, too, and thank goodness for that. I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to get out of that one.

  “Do you need any help carrying him?” Nathan asks.

  “Nah, I’m fine,” I say. He’s very heavy, but I feel like Nathan’s already done enough for me tonight.

  “Okay. What do we do with him, anyway?” he asks as we near the exit to the loading dock.

  “Eh. We’ll figure something out. Maybe bury him in concrete. See how he likes one of those fate-worse-than-death endings.”

  We step into the warm night air, and for a moment, there’s silence. Then floodlights kick on, blasting the entire place with piercing white beams. An all-too-familiar voice rings out from a megaphone. “How thoughtful. Saved us the trouble, I see,” Garen says from somewhere beyond the brilliant lights. I can practically hear the sneer as he speaks.

  There’s no time to react. Darts whistle out of the blinding glare, embedding themselves in our bodies and injecting their poison instantly. I try to run, to get away or at least save Nathan, but there’s no time.

  The world spins, and the dazzling floodlights give way to blackness.

  7

  A DIFFERENT SPEED

  I’m dimly aware of a little cut being made on my finger.

  The world around me is flexing, its proportions zooming up and down. It feels like someone’s locked me in a Tilt-A-Whirl for a week. Patches of blackness swim in and out of my vision, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m lying flat on my back, strapped to some kind of gurney. Actually, “strapped” isn’t the right word. “Manacled” or “welded” would be more fitting. Thick bands of shiny metal restrain me, encircling my ankles, wrists, chest, and waist. Fluorescent lights shine from above, illuminating an immaculate room covered in little gray tiles. There’s an IV bag filled with that same milky white fluid hanging just above my left shoulder, a tube snaking down from it to a cannula embedded in my arm.

  “Thirty-seven seconds,” a girl’s voice says the moment the cut on my finger finishes closing up. It sounds intelligent and somewhat awkward, as if its owner should be pushing a taped pair of frames up their nose as they speak.

  “What? She should be at least a minute plus,” I hear Garen say, sounding baffled.

  “That’s how long it took, sir.”

  “Where’s she hiding her believers, then? All our estimates put her at quasideity status.”

  “I just run the tests, sir,” the voice says in a long-suffering tone.

  “Hmph. Well, maybe she’ll be ready to talk once she’s awake.” I’m aware of him moving beside me, adjusting the flow from the IV. “I’m getting something to eat,” he announces when he’s done. “Contact me if she wakes before I get back.”

  And then he’s gone. A moment later, another face swims into focus. It’s a teenager, I realize with a stab of surprise. This girl can’t be older than—well, older than I look, actually. What’s she doing here? She has a somewhat horsey appearance, exaggerated by an unfortunate habit of leaving her mouth a little open. Her thin, lengthy face is coated in a heavy spray of freckles, and her hair is brown and flat, tucked behind her ears and pulled into a ponytail. A pair of thick black glasses perch on her nose, and she’s wearing a white lab coat stamped with a symbol that looks sort of like a sun with a crack running down its middle. An ID badge clipped to the coat’s left breast tells me the girl’s name is Samantha Drass.

  “Poor thing,” she mumbles as she checks her clipboard, a faint nasal twang in her voice.

  “Seen worse,” I whisper.

  She jumps back, pale green eyes widening. One hand shoots to the matte black transceiver at her hip, but she hesitates, drawing closer and peering at me. “How in the world are you awake already?” she asks, seeming immensely curious.

  “I don’t know. Light sleeper?” I squeak. It’s really hard to concentrate, even though the haze is starting to part.

  She makes a note on her clipboard. “I think we need to up your ratio. Or get a fresher halāhala batch in here. For a deity of your grade, you should’ve been out for another hour at least.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say, blinking and trying to clear the mists out of my head. Whatever they’ve been pumping into me is noxious beyond belief.

  “It’s okay, just bad intel on our p—” She stops, frowning, and checks her clipboard again. “Wait, you’re acting odd.”

  “I am?”

  “Well, Garen and his goon squad hunted you down and drugged you. Most gods in your position wake up all angry, cursing at me, promising all kinds of vengeance.” She pauses, then lowers her voice. “They’re very mean.”

  I have to admit, part of me really does want to put a fist through this girl’s abdomen and tear her spine out through her stomach. That bit about refusing to be restrained? Yeah, it’s still true, and the Nordic warrior maiden within me rages at the notion that anyone would have the gall to try. Whatever. Those thoughts aren’t helpful, and maybe it’s all those years of neglect, or maybe it’s all the happiness and love I’ve been feeding off lately at the parks, but right now I’m not finding it very hard to ignore that arrogant, infuriated voice within me. Besides, something tells me this girl isn’t here because she likes torturing gods. She doesn’t have that same aura of maliciousness that clings to Garen. She seems … innocent.

  Let’s see if she’s guilt-ridden, too. “I’d never hurt anyone,” I lie, trying to get my eyes to water. “I just wanted to be left alone. I’m a god of love. Then … then these people attacked me!” Lip quiver, go!

  She frowns and looks back at her clipboard, seeming very confused. There’s probably a threat assessment field on there about me filled with large, scary letters that say EXTREMELY DANGEROUS or WILL WEAR YOUR INTESTINES AS A SCARF or something similar. “That’s not supposed to happen,” she says, baffled. “They’re supposed to offer to recruit you first.”

  “Well, they did, but I s-said I didn’t want to go.” Sadder! Eyes full of tears!

  That seems to make her even more confused. “Oh. But didn’t they tell you about the believers? We give you believers if you work for us, you know.”

  I nod miserably. “I don’t want them, not after all these years.” Now, that’s a lie for you. “It’s not our world anymore, Samantha.” She looks surprised for a moment at hearing her name, then glances down at her name tag and makes a little noise of comprehension. “I wanted peace and quiet,” I continue. “That’s all. But they wouldn’t take no for an answer”—I gasp, choking back tears—“so here I am.”

  “That’s terrible,” Samantha says, seeming distraught. “I don’t know if we’ve ever had a god refuse our offer before.” She pats me on the shoulder. “This is just a big misunders
tanding—I’m sure of it. I’ll talk to my father and make sure everything gets straightened out.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I say, grateful as can be. Inwardly, I’m thrilled. This girl obviously has no idea what Garen’s been up to. The part about her father is even better. Maybe he’s high-ranking enough to make this a huge mess for everyone involved. Ha! Loki’s not the only god who can manage a bit of deception now and then, is he? Take a bow, Sara.

  “Is my friend okay?” I ask, deciding such concern can only help my cause at this point.

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “I remember hearing you came in with two others, but I don’t know where they went.”

  “His name’s Nathan,” I say, trying to sound fragile. This is actually pretty hard to keep up. “He’s very important to me. I just want to make sure he’s all right.”

  “Of course. I’ll go check. You wait right here,” she says. Then she pauses to take on an embarrassed look as she realizes I don’t have much of a choice. “I’ll be right back,” she finishes quickly, darting out of the room.

  I sigh and try to get comfortable. It’s difficult to move. If I could shift a bit more, get a little momentum to rock the gurney to the floor, that might be something. As it is, I’m almost completely immobilized, and things are still a bit woozy from that junk in the IV drip. What did she call it? Halāhala? I wish I had my Mim right now so I could look that up online. My eyes dart around, searching for my bag, but it’s probably been deposited wherever they’ve taken my clothes. I’m no longer in my T-shirt and jeans, swathed instead in a backless white hospital gown. At first I think it’s covered in little blue polka dots, but on closer inspection, I realize they’re actually tiny flowers. How nice.

  It would be great if I could do something while she’s gone, maybe pocket a scalpel or loosen my bonds in some way, but I’m at a loss. The nasty combination of deity-level restraints and this damnable poison has left me helpless. I can’t recall the last time I’ve felt this way, and hope I never have to again. Ten minutes later, Samantha returns, clipboard clutched tightly in the crook of her left arm.

  “Good news!” she says. “Your friend Nathan is fine—he’s in a holding cell a floor down. He’ll be out for another day or two from the halāhala, but there won’t be any permanent damage.”

  Phew. That makes me feel better. But another day or two? What is this stuff? I’m awfully curious about something that can put down a deity. “Halāhala?” I ask.

  “Oh, it’s a very nasty poison,” she says, grimacing. “We have a pseudo-Shiva in our primary facility who manufactures it for us. Really strong. We have to dilute it heavily.”

  How unhelpful. I could’ve told you it was some kind of toxin, and now she’s left me with even more questions. “Primary facility?” I ask, deciding location is the most important thing to find out right now. “Where are we?”

  She’s about to answer when a nasty voice cuts her off. “None of your business,” it snaps from just beyond my view. Samantha squeaks and spins around. “Was I not clear on being contacted the second she regained consciousness, Ms. Drass?” the voice says through clenched teeth. Garen. Great. Thought I’d have more time before he came back.

  “I did—I mean, she just woke up, sir!”

  “Get out of here,” he says harshly. She gives a glum nod and leaves, shoes tapping on the tiles as she scampers out of the room. Garen saunters into my view, head turned to watch Samantha go. As soon as the door shuts, he looks back at me.

  “Didn’t just wake up, did you?” he asks, smiling. He might be a despicable person in general, but I think it’s that oily smirk of his I hate the most. I entertain thoughts of peeling it off with a morning star as I reply.

  “It’s just so comfortable here I can barely keep my eyes open,” I say sweetly.

  “Right. Look, I’m going to cut to the chase. We want you to work for us. We want you to help our company with your divine powers and join extraction teams to help capture other gods. Oh, and we have all kinds of awful things we can do to you if you don’t. What’s it going to be?”

  Really? He already knows what my answer will be at this point, so why is he even bothering to ask again? Then it hits me—this isn’t his decision. Someone else wants me on board. It’s not Samantha’s doing, either, even though she mentioned speaking to her father; this has been in the works for a while, probably before I even arrived. I laugh. “You spend weeks hunting down this insignificant goddess, almost getting your head caved in twice for your trouble, and after all that, you’re forced to ask for her help. Again. It’s almost like they don’t care that I tried to kill you, isn’t it? That must sting a little.”

  For a moment, a look of supreme frustration dances across his face. It’s gone in a flash, that familiar smirk returning so quickly you’d miss the change if you blinked—but I don’t miss much. “The way you dealt with Dionysus, coupled with your unexpected strength, has caused my higher-ups to reevaluate your usefulness.” He leans closer. “But we both know it’s pointless, don’t we?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” I purr. “What are the benefits like? Do I get dental?”

  His grin shifts slightly, becoming more rueful than anything else. “You’re bound and determined to be a thorn in my side, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “I’m certainly bound,” I say, wiggling my fingers from underneath my wrist restraints.

  “Okay, it’s time for you to take this a little more seriously,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Allow me to be a little more upfront about what we can do here.”

  “Please do. I love a good story.”

  He glares, then begins to pace around my gurney, taking a leisurely circuit in and out of my field of vision. “We make and break deities, ‘Sara,’ and we have it down to a science. We know what makes you tick, how belief can build, shape, and obliterate you.” He pauses, and his smile grows. “Did you know you’re not really a god? Not like you think you are, anyway. You’re a living figment, a bit of walking, talking, neural chaff. Some of the lab boys have started calling you cognivores.” He makes a face. “I prefer ‘parasites.’ Feeding off us for centuries, living in your own little fantasy lands, sending out missionaries to get you more to eat. But it’s never enough, is it?”

  “Is this going somewhere?” I ask, bored already. He’s taking the facts and twisting them, viewing me through a hateful lens of his own making. Of course we owe our existence to humanity. We yearn for your beliefs, but we also work for you. I want to bless my worshippers with romance, beautiful children, and victory in all things. We aren’t your masters; we’re your allies.

  Garen shakes his head. He knows it’s pointless, attempting to convince me, but he has to try. “We know how you’re made,” he says, running a finger down my arm. I squirm in revulsion, trying to jerk away from his touch. “We can help you—that’s really not a lie. It’s all about belief, after all, and we’ve gotten very, very good at brainwashing. We have our own in-house buffet of dreamers, all hooked up and ready to think you into Valhalla. Want to be able to breathe fire? Fly on golden wings? Give us a few weeks.”

  “What?” I gasp, suddenly very serious. He can’t mean this. It can’t be what it sounds like.

  “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you get it. It’s basically the same thing you do, isn’t it? Take society’s scabs and force them to believe in whatever you want? We’re just a bit more … precise about it. We can improve our stable of allied deities, weaken our enemies, and even hothouse our own custom gods. Just takes brainpower, direction, and time.”

  He pauses, looking down at me and savoring the growing comprehension in my eyes. I’m horrified by the concept. If what he’s saying is true, then this place is an abomination. These people—they’ve turned the very act of faith into an assembly line. I wonder if it’s really happening here, what he’s saying, but I already know in my heart it must be. For all our power and mystery, the mechanics of our divinity are remarkably straightforward: Believe in us, and we will ans
wer. We will act as you think we should, provide the services for which you pray, and make your hopes our own. With such a simple foundation, of course it’s possible to twist it, to peel it open with a scalpel and muck around with questing fingers … but to actually do it? Blasphemous.

  “No, not the same,” I hear the ancient battle-maiden in me say. “Not the same at all.”

  “So high and mighty!” he barks. “Oh yes, we’re bad people, aren’t we, toying with the divine like it’s an Erector set. But think for a second, will you? What we do is orderly, fixed. You just run around without a care in the world, gobbling up belief wherever you can find it. Ever stop to think that maybe we’d be better off without you? Maybe we don’t want to have to pray for our scraps, for our capricious god to favor us over our enemies. You, little parasite, invite chaos. Pain and misery follow in the wake of all your kind, every last religion sowing pandemonium in the name of salvation. We are dedicated to ending that torment, and we want you to help us do it.”

  I’m about to start cursing him, his parents, and every child of his lineage out to the fortieth generation when he grasps me by the shoulders and leans into my face.

  “Don’t throw this chance away, Freya,” he hisses. “Join us and help make things better. We’re not out to kill your kind. We just want to take you out of the equation—to make this a rational, serene world. You can live forever, for all I care, so long as you do it without endangering everything we’ve built.”

  He’s so close I can smell his lunch on his breath, see his pulse throbbing through the skin on his neck. “Gods are a disease,” he whispers. “A plague on humanity. Help us cure it.”

  My first thought is to lunge forward and tear out his jugular with my teeth. My second is that he’s insane. Humanity made us. We were brought into this world to help you prosper, not self-destruct. But I refuse to let myself fall into that trap. If I start thinking my enemy is mad, I risk underestimating him. And these people are my enemy—of that I have no doubt. They seek to rob mankind of my gifts and bind me in the process. We have as much right to freedom as any creature, to say nothing of the fact that our existence is—and will always be—dedicated to aiding our creators.