Freya

by Matthew Laurence

  So Garen is wrong. And yet …

  I cannot dismiss his words. The conviction that burns in him must be reflected in the organization he represents, and if I am to destroy it, I have to understand what they are trying to accomplish. These people are very well prepared, dedicated heart and soul to their task, and backed by a ruthless combination of technology and divinity. So I must try to keep an open mind, to appreciate what drives them, so that one day I may ravage them utterly.

  In just a few short moments, my goals have expanded from a simple act of revenge against one man to the annihilation of an entire conspiracy. That’s why my answer must be what it is. Anything less, and I jeopardize my chances of achieving this brutal aim.

  “Okay,” I say in a soft, compliant voice. The battle-maiden in me screams for blood, and it takes all my strength to hold her down, placate her with the promise of future carnage and retribution.

  Garen blinks and pulls back. “What,” he says in a flat voice. Not a question.

  “Okay,” I repeat. “I’ll join you.”

  He narrows his eyes, and there’s an odd tic to his features, as if he’s just had a wrench thrown into his brain’s gears. “Never. You’re lying,” he says.

  Of course I am, Garen. But you have no way to prove it. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?” I reply. “I’m sure this is all being recorded. What will your bosses say if you label me a threat and lock me away, when all the evidence says I am willing to cooperate?”

  “They’ll believe—” He stops. That smirk of his is completely gone, and I get the feeling he’s furious.

  “They need me more than they need you, don’t they? No matter how many years of faithful service you’ve given them, you’re just not quite what they’re looking for, are you?”

  He bites his lip, and I can tell I’ve hit him where it hurts. This, then, is Garen’s weakness—the button I can push to send him over the edge: He hates gods with an all-consuming passion, and yet they will always be valued more highly than him. Years of loyalty, consummate skill, tremendous work ethic, and none of it matters. He knows it, and now I know it, too.

  “Thank you, Freya,” he says at last, spitting the words at me. “Finemdi Corporation appreciates your willingness to cooperate.”

  Finemdi? That’s it, then—the name of the organization I’m going to devastate. It’s Latin, I think, or maybe Italian. I can understand the language of any prayer I receive, but this isn’t Garen’s native tongue and he’s using it as a proper noun, so I don’t know for sure. Another task for my Mim, I suppose.

  Garen walks to the side of the gurney with the IV drip. “We will have more information for you shortly. For now, please rest.” The words are friendly enough, but I can tell by the way he says them in that strained, hateful voice that what he really wanted was for me to refuse his offer.

  He adjusts the poison’s flow, and I start feeling woozy almost at once. The blackened haze begins to return, and the room starts shifting. Then he leans close, putting his lips no more than an inch from my ear. When he speaks, it’s in a voice so soft even I can barely hear it.

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” he whispers. “You can’t hide it forever—it’s your nature. I’ll be waiting for you to snap, Freya. And when you do, I’ll be there to end you.”

  I can’t even respond. I’m unconscious before he leaves the room.

  8

  HANDLE WITH CARE

  This is the strangest meeting I’ve ever attended.

  I’m sitting in a slick conference room, leaning my elbows on a large, oval-shaped wooden table in its center. A chipper, clean-cut young man who introduced himself as Adam Carraway is standing at the front of the room. He’s happily chattering before a large drop-down projector screen, giving a PowerPoint presentation to me … and Dionysus.

  The god of wine, merriment, and sexual harassment is sitting across from me. Every now and then, I stare daggers at him, wishing my divine portfolio included the ability to make someone’s head explode. Of course they’d try to recruit him. And of course he’d be taken in by Garen’s offer. He’s a vain, self-indulgent harlot obsessed with power—it would be stupid to assume anything else. His presence has made this a remarkably tense experience, and I find myself lapsing into a daydream about new ways to maim him every other minute.

  That anxiety has been making it kind of hard to concentrate, as well. Adam’s already moved past the short history of Finemdi, which I sort of blanked out on. Something about an organization of philosophers and statesmen coming together around the time of the American Revolution. What I mostly remember is feeling relieved their history didn’t involve Leonardo da Vinci or the Freemasons in some way. I’ve seen a lot of movies and read a lot of books, and I am so very tired of seeing them pop up everywhere. From hell’s heart I stab at thee, scriptwriters.

  Now Adam’s moving on to gods in general. Apparently, we’re ranked within the organization based on our strength, ranging from lesser to greater deities. They also have a “bottom of the barrel” grouping for quasideities, which can refer either to gods with very few to no followers or to the product of a union between a god and a mortal. I’m pretty certain they’ve been assuming I’m in this category, but I think at this point I’m pushing “lesser.” Hooray. Based on our ranking, we’ll be assigned worshippers from a pool of “volunteers.” Adam touches on this part very briefly, but he does include a picture of unhealthy-looking men and women strapped into chairs with glowing, spiderlike devices of metal and glass placed over their eyes. Finemdi determines the best ways to improve their stable of gods through directed belief from these poor people, but we’re apparently free to make suggestions. I make a mental note to ask about that head-exploding power.

  Then Adam moves on to our responsibilities. Apparently, we’re required to aid them with manifestations of our abilities—if appropriate—and go on missions to help capture or recruit other gods. The general goal is to take deities out of the wild and bring them back to Finemdi facilities, with the ultimate objective being the removal of all gods to a safer and more manageable environment. Laid out through a series of slides in this dry, corporate setting, you could almost forget what they’re doing is an affront to nature.

  “Those are the basics. Now, we’ll be covering more in the next few days, but if you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them,” Adam says, clicking over to the last slide, titled Q&A. The way he looks at me as he says it gives me the impression he really would be happy to do this. How on earth did a naive salesman like him wind up working for a god-hating conspiracy? I resolve to think of a question or two, just so he doesn’t feel bad.

  “When do we get our belief?” Dionysus asks. It’s clear from his posture and shining eyes that he’s been listening with rapt attention to every word of Adam’s presentation.

  “In just a few short weeks,” Adam says, smiling. “We’ll bring in new thought recruits, set up a belief plan, and review you so they know precisely how to target their conviction. In the meantime, we’ll get you familiar with our procedures and make sure you’re comfortable here.”

  “What if we don’t want to live here? Where are we, anyway?” I ask, putting up my hand.

  Adam nods eagerly. “We recognize that some of our deities have continuing responsibilities in the outside world, and those who do are indeed allowed to maintain outside accommodations. If you’d like to apply for an off-site permit, I can request the appropriate forms for you.”

  “I’d appreciate that, thanks,” I say.

  He beams. “As to your other question, we are currently in Impulse Station, an Epsilon-class training and development facility servicing the southeastern United States.”

  “Okay. So where is that? Like, on a map,” I say. It seems everyone here is in the habit of answering questions a little too literally, or assuming too much understanding on the part of the listener. Spell it out for me, people.

  “Oh,” he murmurs, seeming a little surprised I don’t know where
I’ve been taken. “We’re in Orlando, Florida, a bit west of the international airport. Just off Landstreet Road.” He frowns. “Weren’t you…”

  “I was unconscious,” I say, blunt as can be. “But thank you.”

  His mouth clicks closed, and he appears taken aback. I probably don’t come across as the sort of deity who needs to be sedated. “Ah. Well, are there any other questions?”

  “I would like one of those forms as well,” Dionysus says. “I have business responsibilities to which I must attend. Speaking of which, how long has it been since my”—he glances at me, and I catch a hint of annoyance in his frenzied eyes—“capture?”

  “Of course,” Adam says quickly. “According to your files, you were both brought in last night.”

  I glance at the clock hanging over the door. 6:37 PM. That’s good—I was worried I might’ve missed work. I have today and Monday off, so if I can get back sometime tomorrow, I can still make my shifts at the park.

  “Where is the man who was brought in with me?” I ask. “I want him released as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, yes. Nathan, correct? I believe he’s expected to regain consciousness sometime tomorrow. Is he one of your retainers?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Not a problem. We’ll add him to your guest list.” He pauses, looking at us both expectantly, then spreads his hands. “Any other questions?”

  “Where can I get some new clothes?” I ask, picking at my medical scrubs—baggy pale blue pants and matching top. I’m glad to no longer be in that perverted backless gown, but hospital chic really isn’t my style.

  “I’ll arrange to have a few options added to your closet. Otherwise, you can fill out a request form and we’ll have anything you want delivered directly to your room.”

  “Thanks,” I say, hoping whatever Finemdi has on hand is halfway stylish.

  “Anything else?” Adam says.

  “When’s dinner?” Dionysus asks. “I’m famished.”

  Sure you are. I roll my eyes as Adam glances at the clock and answers with, “Perfect timing, then! The cafeteria starts serving right around six o’clock, so if there’s nothing else, I can show you the way now.”

  “Lead on!” Dionysus says cheerfully, bounding to his feet and knocking his chair away. Coolly, I slide out of mine and make sure I carefully tuck it back under the table. I’m not normally a stickler for manners, but pointing out his constant disrespect in every possible way satisfies my passive-aggressive little heart.

  “What’s after dinner?” I ask as we head out of the room and begin walking down the halls. Impulse Station is a maze of branching corridors. There was a map included in the information packet I was given at the start of Adam’s presentation, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s like looking at a bucket of rainbow-colored worms. After getting used to the well-designed utility tunnels of Disney, this is like trying to navigate a nightmare realm with Escher as your cartographer. I’d be lost immediately if Adam weren’t here to guide us.

  “You’ll be guided to your assigned quarters—I’ll make sure you both have the off-site permit forms waiting for you when you arrive—and given the evening to familiarize yourself with the facility and its rules.”

  “Are there any other gods here right now?” I ask.

  “Oh, plenty,” he says, nodding. “Second-largest collection on the eastern seaboard!”

  Collection? I’m incensed by the very idea, but I refuse to let it show. I still remember Garen’s last words to me, and I’m dead set on proving him wrong. I’ll seem like the perfect ally of theirs, right up until the moment I stab them in the back.

  A door swings open in the hallway, and I catch the last snippet of what seems to be a heated conversation. “… has never been denied,” a burly, thickset man in a well-tailored suit is saying, his head turned to speak with someone in the room.

  Garen’s voice replies, and I’m suddenly a lot more interested in this debate. He has a strange tone in his voice, and I realize he’s actually pleading with the man. “But she’s different, sir! She has self-control, and that makes her incredibly—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, specialist!” the man snaps, yelling into the room. “They’re all the same! That’s rather the point, isn’t it? Now, get back in the field and do your job!” With that, he spins, revealing a haggard, lined face, a thick gray mustache, and pale green eyes that narrow as they notice me. Those eyes are familiar, but I can’t quite place them. “Miss,” he says as we walk past.

  Garen exits the room, a wonderfully chastened look on his face. It changes to one of shock the moment he notices me. It’s painfully obvious who they were just talking about in there. As if he can read my thoughts, Garen grimaces and turns, walking down the hall away from us at a brisk pace. I stop to watch him go, wondering if it’s possible to feel any more smug than I do now. The heavyset man holds the door for a few other men in tailored suits, all of whom studiously avoid looking me in the eyes as they file out.

  Oh, this is just delightful. The more I keep my divine urges in check, the more I’m going to confuse and worry everyone in charge of this place. I’m impressed by how I’ve been doing so far. Who would have thought such secrecy would be possible for one so lively and vivacious? Certainly not Garen, I think, chuckling.

  “Are you coming, Miss Freya?” Adam asks, seeming uncomfortable.

  “It’s Sara,” I say, grinning as I fall into step beside them.

  A few minutes later, I’m in the cafeteria, realizing I was wrong to label that meeting “strange.” It’s nothing compared to my new situation. The dining hall we’ve entered is filled with Impulse staff and gods, all enjoying the night’s choices. The hubbub from their conversations percolates through the room, a dull murmur of laughter and gossip. There’s an industrial feel to the place. It reminds me of a converted warehouse; a long, high-ceilinged room filled with dull gray tabletops and matching plastic chairs, racks of fluorescent lights above, and cheap speckled linoleum flooring underfoot. A set of double doors yawns to my left, and there’s a dry-erase board set on a tripod beside them with the night’s specials scribbled in green marker.

  As I draw closer, I see the board is divided into two sections: Immortals and Mortals. Under my heading, there’s roasted boar with sage butter and grilled asparagus (poor pig!), while Finemdi’s human employees have to contend with the rather depressing option of a potato bar. Dionysus nods at the board as if he expected nothing less, then saunters toward the dinner line.

  I look at Adam. “Is everything okay, Miss Frey—I mean, Sara?” he asks nervously. I think he’s misread my pity for disappointment.

  “Fine, Mr. Carraway,” I reply. “I was just surprised by the, um, dinner options.”

  “Are they not acceptable? I assure you, there are standard menu choices inside that may be more to your liking. This is only the special, after all, and—”

  “No, no, they’re fine,” I say, feeling exasperated. He nearly fell over himself there, seeming horrified by the idea I might be unhappy. I get the feeling most of the staff are expected to bend over backward for their divine teammates. “I was just wondering why the specials were … segregated, I guess.”

  He blinks, confusion rewriting his normally cheerful face. I think he’s frantically turning over my words, trying to figure out how this could possibly offend me. I’m not sure who I should have a dimmer view of right now: these people for assuming all gods are stuck-up prima donnas, or my fellow deities for giving them that impression in the first place. “That’s just … the way it’s always been, Miss Sara,” he says at last.

  “All right, wonderful,” I say, deciding I’ll never get a straight answer out of him. “Thank you for all your help, Mr. Carraway.”

  He brightens immediately. “You’re absolutely welcome, Lady Sara. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

  “Of course,” I say, inclining my head at him and then moving toward the dinner line.

/>   I collect a plastic tray from a large stack just inside the double doors, then turn to take in my options. The room is divided into two halves—on my left, there’s a row of stainless steel serving stations, staffed by numerous uniformed chefs. A stenciled metal sign hangs over the line, the word IMMORTALS picked out in block letters. I notice Dionysus is already here, loading up his tray with all manner of goodies. On the opposite side of the room, another line of stations, with fewer, less-appealing options and a handful of uninterested staff members, sits beneath a MORTALS banner. Finally, there’s a do-it-yourself salad bar in the middle, right between the two sides. Blending vegetables and ranch dressing, it seems, is one of the few things deemed acceptable for both groups.

  Part of me wants to rebel against this forced inequality, to march right over to the other side of the room and avail myself of their potato bar and maybe a side of sad-looking pasta. This sort of isolation can only create distrust and resentment between gods and their worshippers, and it’s a perfect example of Finemdi’s corporate philosophy. They see us as intractable, fickle divas, and everything—even their cafeteria design—reflects this mind-set. I’d like to think I’m better than that. I’d like to think I can rise above this rather insulting attempt to appeal to my vanity, and take a stand for what’s right.

  Then I get a closer look at the options on “my” side.

  * * *

  I’m not proud of it, but a few minutes later, I shuffle into the lunchroom wielding a tray covered in luxurious treats. Rack of lamb, truffle gnocchi, crusty bread slices surrounding a modest dab of caviar, and a bowl of butternut squash soup, all of it weighing down my arms with guilt. I feel more than a little ashamed for giving in, but hey—filet mignon was also available, and I managed to refuse that. I won’t indulge until Nathan’s back at my side and the two of us are finally sitting down to a decent, uninterrupted dinner. So that means I’m not a complete sellout, right? I mean, truffle gnocchi, people.