The Hawaiian sisters bob their heads, looking gloomy. Right then and there, I decide to trust these ladies. I’ve never been good at picking out liars, so there’s every chance they could secretly be double agents for Finemdi, but spirits of nature have never struck me as very duplicitous. Mischievous, yes, but two-faced? That’s a decidedly more human characteristic than an elemental one. Besides, I’ve always believed in tit for tat. I assume people are fundamentally good and trustworthy until they prove me wrong, at which point they’re dead to me. Sometimes literally.
“So you’re here to keep an unstable brother of yours in line, and you don’t want to act out because you’re worried they’ll split the three of you up even more,” I say, lowering my voice even further.
They look at one another, then nod. “Sure, they treat us like queens and the food’s not half bad, but we’re not blind,” Hi‘iaka says. “We know what they’re doing is wrong. We just can’t bear to see another of us go.”
“And they won’t actually do something to hurt any of you, because their god of explosions might have himself a little roaring rampage of revenge if he found out.”
“Without a doubt,” Pele says.
“Then I’ll make you three a deal,” I say, glancing around to make sure nobody else is close enough to hear. “Help me, and you’ll never have to worry about Finemdi again.”
Another round of glances passes among the three women, each set of elemental eyes filled with confusion.
“What?” Pele says at last.
“I’m destroying them. Everything they’ve done is an abomination. I’m going to level this entire facility, and that’s just for starters. I need to wipe them off the face of the earth, and I want you to help me do it.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Hi‘iaka laughs. “You don’t think small, I’ll give you that!” She looks at her sisters. “I like her. She’s feisty.”
“She’s dangerous,” Nāmaka says, crossing her arms.
Pele shakes her head at me. “To attack Finemdi is to assault multiple pantheons at this point, Freya,” she explains. “They’re too powerful.”
“Really?” I say, giving her a pitying glare. “Since when do you care about politics?” I shift my gaze to Nāmaka. “Do the tides change for a handful of depraved mortals? Is that your legacy? To lie down and show throat in the face of threats to your very nature?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “The tides are eternal, barbarian. They will outlast love and beauty, to say nothing of these pathetic bureaucrats.”
For a handful of seconds, I pause, staring at her. I realize these words came to me as well, told me I could always wait them out, could trust in time and my own immortality to vanquish them. It was a thought swiftly crushed, of course, dismissed by my outrage at their evil. Why, then, would a creature even more primordial and liberated than myself accept that argument? This is incredibly wrong, I think. What could possibly have changed them so—
I stiffen as cold, harrowing realization tunnels through me, and I understand at last what’s happened here. I see past Nāmaka’s waterlogged features and, for a flickering instant, glimpse the hollow soul beyond. Look at her. Look at all of them! These are spirits of nature, and they’re just accepting their fate—accepting the fact that they’ve been ripped away from their homes—like it’s a minor inconvenience. They don’t realize what’s been done to them, what they’ve even lost. This is why the cafeteria feels so strange, why all those fickle gods are getting along like they are the best of pals. That “belief” Finemdi offers to lure us in? It’s poisoned bait. Those imprisoned dreamers provide power, yes, but at a terrible price. We are what you make of us, after all, and Finemdi knows this all too well. They must think themselves so clever, binding their pet gods with the same resource that empowers them, lacing those oh-so-seductive beliefs with hidden chains of conformity. This is why they trust us, why I’m already walking around like I own the place—because they can believe I’ll never betray them, and, in time, it’ll be true.
They are dreaming their deities into slavery, carving submission into their hearts.
“At what cost?” I ask softly. I must make them see what’s been done to them, must force them to acknowledge the permanency of this place’s malevolence. “One of your brothers has already been twisted by their machinations. Will that atrocity fade with time, as well? And what other horrors could they engineer while you wait for them to grow old? Their goal is the removal of all gods from this world, Nāmaka—nothing less. You cannot outlast oblivion.”
“What would you have us do, little goddess?” Pele asks, eyes afire. “Wage war?”
“Yes,” the Valkyrie in me hisses. “Bit by bit, you have let them chain you, drag you into complacency with threats and treats. They understand gods—understand how to motivate and manipulate us through belief. Think about it. You say you miss the open air, the clap of thunder, the surge of lava on your skin, but in all that longing, where is the hate for those who took it from you?”
All three of them are silent now, staring at me.
“They have tricked you. They have molded your personalities while they strengthened your gifts. Belief can move cities, shake the earth, and reshape the world. It can change the nature of men, empires, and reality itself. And it has changed you.”
I lean back in my chair, eyes moving over them each in turn, searching desperately for some sign of understanding, some sense that they realize what’s been done. They say nothing, and the silence drags. I’m about to leave in exasperation, write them off as a lost cause, when Pele looks down at her hands. She flexes them, watching flawless brown skin shift over ancient bones and muscle. “H-how long have we been here?” she asks, her voice cracking. Tiny sparks drip from her eyes, twinkling tears of fire.
Nāmaka’s jaw moves soundlessly for a moment before her voice makes it out in a croak. “I … I have forgotten.”
Hi‘iaka, devastated, looks between the two of them, then back at me. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper of wind, a zephyr that carries her voice to our ears alone. “What can we do?”
Deep within me, the Valkyrie screams in triumph at this, my first small victory in the war against Finemdi. I smile, and we begin to plot.
* * *
An hour later, the dining hall closes, and we part ways for the evening. My mind whirls with schemes and trickery. This is how it’s meant to be. I feel more like a general about to lead her armies into battle than a forgotten god in medical scrubs. I flag down a guard and have him lead me to my room, letting him deal with the maze of corridors. I’ll need to figure out how to navigate this place someday, but it won’t be tonight. I use the key card that came with my information packet to unlock the door and step inside to find myself standing in a suite that wouldn’t be out of place in a luxury hotel. There’s a king-size bed, tasteful furnishings, glossy tile floors, and a large flat-screen TV.
My possessions are stacked in a neat little pile on top of the bed, bag cleaned and clothing freshly laundered. There’s a handwritten note on top that apologizes for being unable to remove the red wine stains and adds that the room’s closet should have a few sets of clothing that might interest me.
I notice a piece of paper on the bed beside my things, picking it up to see it’s the off-site permit request form Mr. Carraway promised to provide. I’ll need to fill that out later. This room is nice and all, but even if I have to make time in my schedule to play the good little goddess for Finemdi during the day, there’s no way I’m staying here overnight—I like my little apartment near Disney, and I don’t want to get comfortable in a place I’ll be turning to ash. I dump out my bag and look through its contents. There’s my Mim, thankfully preserved from Dionysus’s wine wave by a closed zipper and waterproof lining. Some makeup and lipstick, a small hand mirror, keys, cash, credit cards, license … looks like it’s all here. I’ll have to get Nathan to go over everything with a fine-tooth comb and make sure Finemdi didn’t leave any surprises, but no
thing catches my eye.
That brings my thoughts back to my poor friend. I hope he’s okay. The poison is supposed to wear off sometime tomorrow for him, so I’ll find out then, but I can’t help feeling a little guilty for bringing him into this. One of these days, I promise myself, we’ll get a real night out to ourselves. I sigh and shake my head. Regret can wait—there’s so much more planning I could be doing, more information I could be uncovering about Finemdi. My eyes dart to the closet door. Then again, there’s also new clothing to examine. I glance at my pale scrubs. Yeah, I already know how this is going to end. I’d like to pretend there’s more of a struggle between the two options, but I already feel like I lie to myself a little too often as it is.
The outfits in the closet aren’t half bad. Most of them are conservative choices, but since today’s fashions seem tailored toward women engaged in a blood feud to see who can show as much skin as possible, I can’t say I mind. They even have my size. How thoughtful. I paw through a half-dozen choices—there’s a nice variety in here—before settling on a soft peach top and jeans. I pull them off the rack and quickly slip them on, then head into the bathroom to look myself over in the mirror. If I’m going to snoop around the facility, I’d at least like to look good while I’m doing it. Not that I think I’ll seem all that suspicious; there are still plenty of hours left until bedtime, and I spent most of the day resting in a drug-induced coma anyway.
I stare at myself for a minute, twisting to the side to see how my clothes hang, then look up at my head and narrow my eyes. Might as well try to do something about my hair, too. I lean closer, eyes narrowing. No harm in tossing on a little makeup, either.
Half an hour later, I head out of my room, all done up and feeling a lot better about myself. My bag bounces at my hip, filled to the brim with the incomprehensible map, my key card, and all my other possessions. I kneel outside the door to leave the completed off-site permit form on the floor of the hallway, figuring it’ll be noticed sooner there. Then I start my journey down the corridors in a random direction, intent on getting a better idea of the facility’s layout. As I stroll past stoic guards and soundless security cameras, testing door handles and peering into empty meeting rooms, I quickly get the impression that no one cares where I go. Sure, every now and then I’ll run into a door my key card won’t unlock, but overall I feel like I have the run of the place.
At first I’m extremely suspicious, wondering what they could be hiding, but as more time passes without anyone stopping me, it all starts to make sense. They pamper deities, treating them like trusted teammates while secretly believing them into an obedient stupor, so why not let them roam freely? I have to admit, I might have been suckered in by their song and dance if it hadn’t been for my self-imposed exile at the Inward Care Center. I think all those years spent distancing myself from my divine urges has made me something of a wild card in this place. No wonder Garen seemed surprised when I didn’t leap at his offer of believers … and no wonder he’s so worried about what I’ll do now.
Actually, forget worried; I think he’s terrified.
Their corporate doctrine allows for gods who only fall into one of two camps: To them, we’re either helpful deities they can brainwash and control, or vengeful ones they need to lock away. Since gods are always larger than life, wearing their principles on their sleeves, Finemdi’s operatives probably have no trouble sorting us into the right group. At our core, every last one of us is heartbreakingly predictable. Even with lifetimes of wisdom behind us, we’ll still make terrible choices if it’s what we were created to do, and they know it.
Every last one of us … except me.
Centuries ago, when I failed my worshippers and proved myself unworthy of my mantle (it’s a long story), I never could have imagined I was starting myself on a path that would bring me so low I could actually ignore the call of divinity, the all-consuming addiction of belief. It wasn’t my intent, but where I’ve ended up is the end of a trail Finemdi has clearly never expected a god to tread. That’s what Garen was trying to tell Mr. Drass—he can’t predict how I’ll handle all this, because I’m the first god he’s met who’s clearly in the vengeful camp, yet able to act like I’m not.
Speaking of which …
I stop in the middle of another featureless gray hallway as a thought strikes me. Where are all those vengeful gods? Would Finemdi be stupid enough to lock them all up in a single place? Probably not, right? So they must have a prison at every facility where they stash the gods they can’t trust. We are, after all, incredibly hard to kill. Impulse is supposed to be a major headquarters for the company, so it stands to reason there are a few nasties hidden somewhere.
I need to find these miscreants. I pull out my map and start hunting for the word prison. Nothing. Ensuing searches for incarceration, penitentiary, and detention center prove equally fruitless. Finally, a lone wing on the building’s highest level catches my eye: Correctional Ward. Now we’re getting somewhere. I immediately head for the nearest elevator, intent on seeing Finemdi’s divine detainees. Unfortunately, this choice puts me up against the stark insanity of the building’s layout. I thought finding my goal on the map was hard, but doing it in person is a nightmare. I spend—I kid you not—a good hour hunting for the place. It’s like they designed things to be as confusing as possible. I’m determined, though, and when I finally come to a door with a small plaque beside it that reads CORRECTIONS, I pump my fist in the air. Take that, stupid architects.
I hold up my key card, wondering if it’ll actually work, when the lock blinks green and the door swings open. A white-haired man in a lab coat emerges. He starts when he sees me, a confused look on his face. His name tag says GOODSON, BARNABY. I nod at him and reach out a hand to hold the door.
“Oh. Excuse me, sorry,” he mumbles, zipping past me.
“No problem,” I say. “Have a good night!”
He smiles distractedly, a puzzled tint in his eyes, and waves before turning around and heading down the hall. Well, that was easy. I slip inside the door and find myself in a little waiting room. A larger, more imposing metal door is directly in front of me. There’s a guard sitting at a counter to my right behind a half wall of bulletproof glass. He looks away from a bank of three computer monitors as I enter. One of them appears to have security camera feeds into the various cells beyond—it’s split into six different boxes, each showing a different room. The opposite monitor has an overhead schematic of the local area highlighted in green. I can see a hallway with ten small rooms—five on each side—and icons that seem to indicate that only half of them are occupied. The middle monitor has a Web browser open to a social news site I recognize, rows of top-voted links to entertaining articles and images spilling down the page. The guard nods at a slot built into the glass where it joins the countertop.
“Purse, please,” he says, sounding bored.
I pull my bag off my shoulder and slide it through the hole in the glass. He takes it, glances inside, then hangs it on a peg on the wall behind him under the number 2. He passes a little plastic token back to me through the slot. I take it and see the number on it matches my bag’s peg.
“Remember, ward lockdown’s in half an hour,” he says, stabbing a button beside him.
There’s a buzzing noise from the door in front of me. Catching on fast, I pull the handle, swing it open, and head inside. The room I’ve entered looks almost exactly like a high-security prison block from a movie. It’s a long, low, brightly lit hallway, its spotless concrete floors and gray walls broken up by cells on either side. Each cell looks like a giant fish tank, the stereotypical bars replaced with thick sheets of acrylic glass. All of them have very solid-looking metal doors built into the wall just to the right of the glass, with a locked slot set about waist-high.
Immediately, I feel a sense of menace. The air practically buzzes with mystic energy, and I catch the telltale whiff of wards and defensive spells. On either side of the door I’ve entered, thick gun racks secured with
electronic locks are embedded in the wall. Instead of firearms, however, they contain what look like harpoons capped by jagged spearheads of some pearlescent material. They glow with a faint, reassuring light. I lean in to inspect them briefly, then move to explore the rest of the area. A shiver runs through me as I take my first step down the hall. There’s an unsettling urge to turn around and leave growing inside me. I realize this is a bad place, full of very bad things. Maybe I won’t check out the entire wing. Yes, just a cell or two before I leave. I only have half an hour here anyway. I turn to my right, looking into the first cell. Its occupant—a large, malnourished black dog—is watching me warily.
I move to examine it more closely and it growls, baring its fangs. Its teeth are enormous; long, daggerlike points that look like they’ve been carved from obsidian. Waves of heat pour from its mouth, and I notice its paws aren’t really canine at all—they look more like the footpads of a gecko, talons of wicked rock capping each digit where a nail should be. It’s a scraggly, foul thing, and I realize I want nothing to do with it. I pull back. After a moment, it seems to lose interest in me and resumes pacing.
Across from the dog is another occupied cell. This one has a beautiful young Asian woman in it, her straight black hair falling down past her shoulders to frame a pristine white face. She’s dressed in a plain white kimono and sits cross-legged behind a low wooden table. There’s a tea set on it, a cup of steaming liquid placed directly in front of her atop a saucer. Scrolls adorn the walls of her cell, every last one coated with intricate Japanese kanji. A woven bamboo mat covers the floor, and a pair of wooden slippers lie near the door.
I walk closer and frown. There’s something deeply troubling about this girl, and it’s a thorough sense of wrongness that’s almost familiar. Then she looks up, revealing eyes of purest midnight. Those black orbs lock onto me, and I see a flash of this girl as another creature entirely, one dead but not dead, her putrid skin split and rotten, kimono decayed and torn, maggots spilling from gaping wounds in her body. It’s gone in an instant, but I know exactly who she reminds me of: Hel, daughter of Loki and ruler of the underworld.
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