My jaw drops at the concept. They’re using pieces of a god of evil as grotesque “Get Out of Jail Free” cards. Well, that explains how Garen kept escaping.
“I know! It’s amazing!” Adam chirps, mistaking my shock for appreciation. “Now, unfortunately, this isn’t something we recommend for our divine teammates. Ahriman’s aura remains affixed to every part of his body, and while mortals and hybrids are unable to sense it, gods subjected to the field report rather unpleasant imagery and emotions.”
I’ll say. I shudder at the memories.
“I would like to attempt it, all the same,” Dionysus says.
Adam bobs his head. “Certainly, sir! As I said before, it’s not recommended, but we do have a handful of gods who are either able to ignore the effects or seem indifferent to them. I’ll make sure to set you up with a test piece in a few days,” he says, jotting something down on his smartphone.
I don’t know what’s worse: The idea that any god in their right mind would consider using this vile method of transportation, or the fact that Finemdi employs some who are indifferent to the images that come with it.
“Now, like I said, these are just a few examples of what gods have been able to do for us in the past,” Adam says, pocketing his phone again. “The point here is to get you two thinking about all the applications your powers might have for Finemdi. Remember, a great idea might take a bit of sorcery to pull off, but as you’ve seen here, the results can be astounding!”
Dionysus is nodding vigorously, clearly impressed, but I can barely speak. The way Adam’s presented it as some sort of infomercial about all the wonderful things gods can do for Finemdi just adds to the horror of the situation. As I leave the meeting, I am, with what’s approaching an apocalyptic sense of glee at this point, further convinced that this place needs to be destroyed.
Luckily, Nathan’s waiting outside to calm me down, leaning against the wall of the corridor. He makes a face behind Dionysus’s back as the god saunters away, off to do whatever professional twits do, I suppose.
I grin at Nathan and make a rude gesture at Dionysus, too. Adam, emerging from the meeting room with his little laptop, notices and gives me a shocked look, then scurries away in the opposite direction without a word.
“Aw, I think you scared him,” Nathan says, pushing off from the wall.
I laugh and start walking with him. “He really does mean well, I think. Just happens to be a clueless mouthpiece for Evil, Inc.”
“You should see if you can get him a job at Disney. He’s always so chipper.”
“Hah, he’d fit right in.” I smile, imagining Adam giving his little PowerPoint presentation about cartoon characters instead. Honestly, it would be a better match. “So, how was class this time?”
He gives a thumbs-down and blows a raspberry. “It’s like they’re trying to bore me. And I have homework. Homework!”
“You’ll never get into a good school with that attitude.”
“Har, har. They want a research paper on you—minimum ten pages, double-spaced, with references! ‘A high priest should know their god’s background,’ boo.” He lowers his voice. “Any chance you can destroy this place before next Monday?”
“Nathan, of course!” I say with mock seriousness. “I mean, they’re a crime against nature, but now that I know I can get you out of doing homework, too, I’ll have to pick up the pace.”
“So that’s a no?”
I laugh, and we joke a bit more before coming to another intersection. I jerk my head down one path. “Dinner’s about to start. Join me?”
He shakes his head, looking bummed. “Another training session with that French lady. They seriously want me to be able to help you with makeup and style choices.”
“It’s actually kind of thoughtful,” I say, surprised to be in the position of complimenting my sworn enemies.
“Yeah, no pressure like helping your god put on eyeliner.” He waves and splits off in the other direction. “Catch you later!”
I practically skip down the hall, eager to see the evening’s menu options. It’s not long before I’m going over the specials with gleaming eyes, tummy rumbling in anticipation. When I destroy this station, I’m going to have to figure out how to spare the chefs—I’ve never seen a place with better meals. Could they have a god of fine dining back there? Is there one? I’d ask, but that would only increase the delay before I get to enjoy the food. Tonight’s theme for immortals is the Far East, so when I exit the cafeteria line, my tray bears all manner of finely crafted dim sum appetizers, handmade sushi rolls, and a steaming bowl of fresh noodle soup.
I give the place a quick inspection, looking for usual companions and coming up short. It’s not surprising—I got to the cafeteria right as it opened, and the Hawaiian sisters are, like all nature spirits, notoriously bad with schedules. I’m about to grab an empty table when I stop short. Garen’s here, sitting on the far side of the room with his back against the wall, eating alone.
My first instinct is to shoot him a nasty look and sit on the exact opposite end of the dining hall, but then I think about what I’ve learned from Nantosuelta and wonder if it might be a better idea to talk to him. I’m curious about the man, and not just because I feel like it’s always a good idea to know as much as you can about your enemies.
I’m waffling between the two options when another thought hits: He’d hate to eat with me. That tips the balance, and I start heading toward his table with a confident stride. If all else fails, trust in spite to settle a tricky issue. After all, he’s ruined at least one of my dinners.
It’s only fair I return the favor.
12
UNINVITED GUESTS
Garen lifts his dark brown eyes, fixing them on me as I approach. A mix of confusion and anger passes over his face as he realizes I’m making a beeline for his table. It’s wonderful.
I set my tray in front of him and point at the chair. “Care for some company?” I ask, sweet as can be.
He gives me a calculating stare, then glances at his meal like he’s trying to figure out if it’s worth leaving now—he’s barely even started. “What do you want, Freya?” he finally says in a weary tone.
“That’s a ‘yes,’ then? Good.” I slide the chair out and plop down, scooting in with some obnoxious screeches.
He shakes his head and sighs. “Come to gloat?”
“Why would I do a thing like that?” I ask, picking up my chopsticks and fumbling with them.
He stirs his soup—he has a mix of dishes from both sides of the cafeteria, I notice—and glares. “Drop the act already. We both know you’re smarter than that.”
“You really hate me, don’t you?” I say, still struggling with the chopsticks. “It’s not like I came out swinging. I wanted to be left alone.”
He gives me another of his uncomfortable stares, then rolls his eyes. “That didn’t change my job, you realize. And no, I don’t hate you. I hate what you represent—what you and your kind do to people—but you? As a person?” He shrugs. “I barely know you, and you haven’t done anything particularly detestable. Just suspicious.”
“Aw, Garen, you sweet-talker, you. What girl doesn’t want to hear they’re not ‘particularly detestable’?” I finish in a gravelly mimic of his voice.
“Plan on telling me what you want yet?” He takes a sip of his soup. “Or are we going to do this dance some more?”
“To be honest, I came by to ruin your dinner because you’ve been a giant jerk to me,” I say, and he smiles a little at that. “But you’re dangerously close to being more than a one-dimensional James Bond villain, and I’d kind of like to see how much.”
That gets me a very confused look. “Freya, do you have the faintest idea how strange you are?” he asks, sounding legitimately curious.
“Nope. Lay it on me.”
“There’s a lot that’s wrong with you, actually, but do you know what the worst part is?” He leans in as he asks it, like he’s about to share a secret, and I
hunch over to listen. “You give people here hope.”
“Huh? What’s so bad about that?”
“You should know—you’ve been around. Hope can tear a mind apart, make you question everything.”
“And what do I make you question, Garen?”
He holds my gaze, then shakes his head, just a little. “You don’t get it, do you? Why you’re so damnably terrifying? You honestly haven’t thought about it.”
“Thought about what?”
“Freya, if you can act like a person, if you don’t have to twist people into following you, can accept a normal life like everyone else, then logically, so can any other god.”
I think it over for a moment, then bob my head. “Yeah, okay. Makes sense. What’s your point?”
“What’s my—they don’t, girl. Ever. You’re the only god in the history of this company—I’ve checked—who’s been able to do this.”
“So you hate gods, but because I can act a little differently, you’re … what? Worried all those years hunting us down might not be as morally awesome as you thought?”
“In part,” he mutters. “Look, do me a favor and slip up, all right? Act like the holy berserker I know you want to be, and quit messing with my head.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say with a wink, and make another try for my sushi.
“Like that!” he says, holding out his hands, exasperated. “You’re not trying to threaten me, and this isn’t some patronizing attempt at seduction—you’re actually having fun here.”
“’Course I am. The colossal jackass who ruined my life, shot me full of poison, and tried to get me imprisoned for eternity is climbing the walls because I’m being myself.” I give him a thumbs-up. “Good times!”
“Glad to brighten your day,” he says, drier than a desert. “You think it’s so simple. I’m a bad man for doing my job? Fine. Change the job, then. Tell me what I should do about gods, Freya. You’re in charge now. What’s the plan, fearless leader?”
Ooh, interesting. I set my chopsticks aside and snatch one of the dumplings with my fingers, popping it into my mouth while I think it over. “Some gods are evil, I’ll give you that,” I say, chewing. “So you go after them. Only them.”
He gives me a mocking salute. “Great idea, sir. Now all you need to do is define ‘evil’ and we’re off to the races.”
“Don’t give me that,” I say, eating another dumpling with my fingers. “Try a god of pestilence, maybe? God of sin? God of freaking evil?”
“God of war?” he asks with a lazy smile. I frown and I’m about to get snarky when he holds up a hand. “Low blow. We’ll set that aside for a moment. How about love?”
“Love isn’t evil!” I snap.
“The brokenhearted might disagree. Jilted lovers. Adulterers. What’s the line between love and lust? Where do stalkers come from? Who decides when love happens? People get hurt, Freya. You know that. Love can ruin lives as quickly as bullets.”
“Oh, screw you,” I say, legitimately upset. “You’re just cherry-picking the worst-case scen—”
“Then who chooses?” he asks. “You? Pick a god—any god—and tell me they don’t have the potential for fantastic amounts of harm.”
“I’m a god of beauty, too, you know. Where’s the harm in—”
“‘Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?’” Garen quotes with a smirk.
“Ugh.” I throw up my hands. “How long were you holding on to that one?”
“Have I made my point yet?”
“No! What about nature spirits? They—”
“Name one who can’t be associated with a natural disaster. One.”
I think it over for a moment. “Forest gods,” I say with a defiant look.
“Ecoterrorists,” he shoots back. “They’ll go to any lengths to protect the land, and you know it.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” I say, feeling flustered. “There are gods of simple things, too! Dance, art, joy. Why lock up a god of happiness, Garen?”
“Now you’re getting interesting,” he says, pausing to take another spoonful of soup. “Have you ever known a god with a specialty like that? Just one domain, and nothing else?”
“Yeah, plenty.”
“What were they like?”
“Very focused on whatever it was, I guess. Driven, really.”
“Would it be unfair to say obsessed?”
I feel a trap closing but plow ahead. “No, I suppose not.”
“Okay, great. Here’s the problem: They come in all shapes and sizes, but at their worst, those gods can be the most insidious of all. People aren’t meant to be happy twenty-four seven, and that’s one of the nicer fates. I’ve seen artists so inspired they worked their fingers to bloody nubs and passed out from exhaustion. Those gods burn people out, twist them into puppets, and, given enough time, permanently break them. They can’t help it—it’s their nature. They have to do it, and we pay the price.” Another slurp. “Except you,” he says, looking up from his soup with a very strange expression. “You held back. So are you a reason to find new respect for the gods … or hate them even more?”
Huh? “Why would I make you hate—?”
“Because if they could ignore their urges like you can, if they can help it, and they don’t…” He grits his teeth and makes a fist. I feel the anger pulse through him like distant thunder. “Then every last one of those miserable sons of bitches can burn.”
Ah. “Gettin’ a little dark there, aren’t you?”
He smiles at that, and for once it’s not his oily, practiced one. “You did ask. So yeah, there’s your answer. Sorry if you feel like I ruined your life over it, but you know what?”
“Not really sorry?”
“Not so much, no.” He returns to his soup, and I feel the anger in him start to evaporate. We both eat in silence for a few minutes, him slurping noodles and broth, me wrestling with my dumb chopsticks.
He looks up, watches quietly for a little. “God of love and war, and you can’t pick up a piece of fish?” he says at last, pointing his spoon at my current struggle.
“Fish, I can handle,” I say, tossing down the chopsticks with a frustrated noise. “Come to Scandinavia sometime—best seafood you ever had.” I hold up a piece of sushi and gesture at it. “This is a little fish burrito, and for some reason, I’m not supposed to use my fingers to eat it?”
He sighs and holds out his hand. After I pause for a few seconds, watching it warily, he snorts and grabs my chopsticks, then reaches over and beckons for my free hand. I narrow my eyes at him.
“What am I gonna do, put your prints on a gun?” he asks, and gestures for me again.
I snort and stretch out my hand. He takes it, fits the chopsticks into my fingers, and helps shape my hand around them. “There, like a pencil. Just use your thumb, index, and middle fingers to wiggle the top one. The other, you don’t move.”
I try it. He corrects me a few times, and then it clicks. I reach out and pick up a piece of sushi with the chopsticks and smile. “Hey! Thanks!” I eat it, happy with my new talent. “You’re still on my list, and I don’t know why you did that, but thanks.”
He goes back to his meal. “Maybe so when you do eventually snap and try to kill me, you’ll at least feel conflicted about it.”
“Kind of a dick move if that’s the case,” I say, targeting another sushi.
He makes a little eh noise. “Gotta keep up appearances. I know your kind. Too endearing for your own good—or mine.”
“It’s the cleavage, isn’t it?” I say with a grin, crossing my arms and leaning forward.
He snorts. “Seriously? You look like you should be sending applications to colleges.”
“Well, excuse me for being dreamt up when this was middle-aged,” I say, gesturing at myself.
“Look at you, showing off your sense of humor like it’s an A on a math test.” He drains the last of his soup and tosses down his napkin. “Well, this has
been awkward and annoying. Don’t make it a habit, if you’d be so kind.”
“Call me,” I say, toasting him with my water glass.
He makes a disgusted sound, picks up his tray, and leaves.
I spend a few seconds eating in silence, feeling pretty smug about our exchange (other than the fact that I’m going to prove him right when I level this place). Sadly, like all good things, those vibes are not long for the world. A little twitch of movement out of the corner of my eye, a white shape prowling around the table, and suddenly Dionysus is sliding into the chair opposite me, tray piled high with gourmet choices.
“Eating alone? Cruel fate for such a beautiful creature,” he says, undressing me with his eyes.
“Did I invite you here?” I growl, good mood thoroughly mangled.
“Did he?” Dionysus says, nodding at Garen, who’s just leaving the cafeteria. “Double standards are unbecoming for beauties. Come, sit and spar with me as you did the half-breed.” A glass of red wine blinks into existence in one of his hands, and he takes an exaggerated slurp from it.
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“No,” he says with a shrug, picking up a handful of sushi, mashing it into a pool of soy sauce, and eating it. “But then, this isn’t quite the sort of sparring I’d prefer anyway.” Despite a mouthful of food, he manages to say it in a crisp, unburdened voice. What a weird trick.
“So what makes you think I’m going to sit here for longer than it takes to tell you how much of a scumbag you are?” He opens his mouth to respond, and I hold up a finger. “You scumbag. There.” I wrap my hands around the edges of my tray and make to leave.
“Nothing I can say, clearly,” he says, and looks pointedly to our right.
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