I spare a glance behind us as we reach the parking lot; the turtle is still spiraling high into the skies, flecks of lava dripping from its stomach, enraged howls escaping from its maw.
“An excellent distraction!” Sekhmet yells at Pele as she jogs alongside us.
“Yeah, brilliant!” Hi‘iaka adds.
Pele grins at that and puts on an extra burst of speed, aiming for our Honda at the back of the lot. Nāmaka just shakes her head, though whether she’s frustrated at our nearly getting caught or Pele getting something new to brag about, I’m not sure. We all reach the car at roughly the same time (I suspect Sekhmet was holding herself back for us). I fumble in my bag for the keys, spending a few heart-stopping seconds fishing around in the mess of makeup, receipts, trinkets, and mini Toblerone bars for the little tangle of metal before I wrench it out with a cry and click the button to unlock the doors. I practically toss Nathan into the backseat, and we all pile into the car. I slam the door closed, turn the key in the ignition, and peel out of the lot as quickly as I dare. Driving is still new to me, but I refuse to err on the side of safety.
A few minutes later, as we merge onto more populated roads, I feel some of the tension in the car begin to fade. There’s no sign of the turtle, or any other form of pursuit. “Hey, girls?” Hi‘iaka says, chuckling nervously. “I think I can guess what Ms. Drass was about to say before she fell asleep.”
I laugh a little too much at that—we all do, really—but I can’t help myself. I didn’t get up today expecting to narrowly escape the attentions of a Finemdi assault squad … to say nothing of the turtle. That thought just makes me laugh even harder, and it’s to the sound of our relieved mirth that Nathan finally awakes with a groan.
“What the hell just happened?” he moans from the car’s floor. “And why are you all laughing?”
“Sky turtle,” I manage to squeak out before a new wave of amusement consumes us. When it finally dies down enough for us to concentrate, we fill Nathan in on what he missed.
“Wish I could’ve seen that,” he murmurs, sounding a little jealous.
“Yeah, wasn’t something I’ve encountered before,” I say. “Sekhmet? Any ideas?” My friend has been rather quiet the entire ride.
She nods, seeming unsettled. “I believe that was the personal conveyance of the ebon goddess we saw. She is Yamī—a Hindu deity. The Tibetans revere her as ruler of all the female spirits in Naraka, their purgatory.”
She pauses, displaying a rare moment of apprehension. It occurs to me that she doesn’t want to voice her next thought. When she does at last, I can see why. “It bodes ill for us that Finemdi controls such gods. How many can they truly call their own? How many are left beyond their walls?”
The remaining humor flees the car in the face of those sobering questions. We ride in silence for an awkward minute. Finally, Hi‘iaka breaks it, trying to focus us on something a little less depressing. “So what’s in the package?” she asks.
“Oh yeah,” I mutter, patting my overstuffed bag. “Must’ve been important. Let’s check it out when we get inside the apartment.”
I pull into our usual space, and we hurry out of the car, dashing across the parking lot as if any time spent in the open will call Finemdi down onto our heads. Then, safe in our cramped little condo, I haul out the envelope and tear it open. Two things spill out: a note card with Samantha’s e-mail address, and the political section of the Washington Post newspaper, dated from over two weeks ago.
I begin leafing through it. “Why would she…?”
My confusion ends the moment I spot a particular article. The image above it has been circled in red. It’s captioned with the innocuous phrase Gen. Theo Ariston seeks a new life in the private sector and shows a stern man standing in front of a government building, looking official. Beside it, Samantha’s neat handwriting reads, Who do you think he just joined?
I gasp, and the paper falls from my hands. He may be wearing a military dress uniform, but I would recognize that chiseled face anywhere.
Sekhmet touches my shoulder and leans in to examine the image, eyes narrowing. “Can it be?” she whispers.
I nod, an odd mix of excitement and anger coursing through me.
“Who is he, Sara?” Nathan asks, picking up the paper and frowning at the picture.
I glance at my friend, a wicked smile tugging my features. At last. At last. “A dead man,” I say, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
I take a moment to gather my thoughts, and then I begin the story of how I lost everything.
2
ONCE UPON A TIME
FREYA
The world was mine, once. Maybe twice. It’s hard to remember.
Here I am, a god, a shining, egotistical force of nature, yet fallen so far from what I once was that I don’t even want to use the name my followers gave me. Haven’t you wondered how that happened? How I came to accept my fate, to pull away from the world and hunker down in the shadows like a wounded animal?
Well, I was wounded, of course.
Long ago, I tried to play kingmaker, to use my immortality to meddle in the affairs of man. My pantheon had begun its decline, but our power was far from gone. I thought I could do what no human could, that with my magic, agelessness, and experience, I could create an empire to stand the test of time. My hand would always be there, guiding an endless procession of rulers.
In my arrogance, I actually believed I was the only god to try this.
Let me paint you a picture: I sit behind a dozen thrones, hidden ruler of Scandinavia and England, beloved queen, courtesan, and seer. Then a horde of ignorant barbarians arrives from lands beyond, from across the southern sea, and challenges my kingdom. Our armies meet at a spot of my choosing, on high ground that gives us the advantage. I ride out beside my king, shield our forces with an impenetrable spell, and wait for our foes to come and die.
They oblige me. They fall in droves, unable to assault the hill, their arrows and spears turned aside by my wondrous magic. Then, as the rabble retreats, a single man walks forth, clad in odd segmented plates of armor, glittering bands of steel covering his bright red tunic. A skirt of studded leather straps bounces around his legs, and he clutches a short, thick sword in one white-knuckled hand. He brushes our arrows from his skin as if they were irritating flies, his stride unbroken by the hail of weaponry that rains upon him. As he nears my wards, I catch the jagged pulse of divinity writhing beneath the crested helm that shadows his eyes. Then he plunges his sword into my barrier, gives it a twist, and shatters it like glass.
I walk forward to meet him, long sword in hand and spells of battle on my lips. We lay waste to each other and the land around us, our fight tearing open the earth and turning men to mist. I besiege him with living lightning, bathe his forces in hurricanes of fire, and resurrect my fallen almost as fast as he can kill them. Golems of blood and steel rise at my command, glacial winds of razor ice howl across the battlefield, and our weapons clash with the speed and strength of thunderclaps. Impossible devastation flows from me, a torrent of magic and violence that scars the skies and nips at the foundations of reality.
And it’s not enough.
I am a god of war, but far too late I realize he is one as well, and this conflict has only fueled him. He is battle personified, a creature undiluted by concepts such as love and fertility, and in this arena, he is my better. In the end, a brutal slash of his blade removes one of my arms, a spinning thrust pierces my heart, and a final sweep takes off my head.
My view of the landscape tumbles and bounces crazily before I come to rest on a thick patch of grass halfway down the hill. At first it’s peaceful, a welcome rest from the haze of battle and the pressures of command. Then rough fingers plunge into my hair and I’m wrenched from the grasses, raised into the air until I am brought face-to-face with my attacker. I sway before him, a crisp fall wind rustling my golden locks.
His eyes are burning pits, his features noble yet enraged; a berserker carved from marbl
e. “Your little island is mine,” he grates in the Norman tongue. “And you will make a fine trophy.”
“I am no man’s prize,” I say with all the disdain a decapitated head can manage. It’s not much.
He laughs at that, a booming, humorless bellow that carries over the sound of my people being crushed by his army’s counterattack. “Pathetic girl, I am the Destroyer of Men, the Stormer of Walls, the Lord of War.” He sneers and brings me closer. “The world is my prize.”
The terrible thing is, he’s right.
My neck is capped in molten gold and enchanted with ruinous magic, preventing me from re-forming through the beliefs of my followers. For a hundred years, I rest on his mantel as he conquers the known world in the name of countless mortal rulers, always seeking new wars, new bloodshed. In the end, I’m traded away with a host of other trinkets. I don’t know if he simply forgot about me, or this is just another form of disrespect. Whatever the reason, I’ve escaped in the hands of unscrupulous traders, and through no guile of my own.
I should be outraged at the idea, but decades of imprisonment and humiliation have blunted my sense of self-importance. I can feel my worshippers dwindling, my strength fading. Christianity is spreading, its missionaries slithering through my homelands, and I have no one to blame but myself. I dared to meddle in the affairs of other realms, reached too far for power, and this is where it has led me—if I had remained with my pantheon, if I had been there to answer the prayers of my people, I might still have their belief. At the very least, I certainly wouldn’t be a disembodied head on a pile of treasure, being sold for a handful of coins.
Besides self-loathing, I actually feel a stirring of excitement. The end seems in sight. My hope is that my new owners consider my head worthless, that the gold on my neck is all they really want. If they pry it off and melt it down, they’ll free me in the process. Yet all too soon, it becomes clear the enchantments are too strong for these mortals to sever. Though my surroundings have changed, I remain a prisoner. The years crawl by as I’m passed from owner to owner, nothing more than a bizarre curio traveling Europe in the collections of nobles and scoundrels alike. The days blur into a crushing mix of boredom and disgrace while my power evaporates like blood into the seas. The only constant, the only thing I can hold on to, is my hatred for the god who did this. I swear a thousand times, to all the fates that touch this world, that his suffering will be cruel beyond reason and last days beyond counting.
Finally, another decade after I was first sold, I wind up in Egypt, a gift to a powerful lord. Servants bring me to his home with other expensive gifts and leave me in a receiving room overseen by a bookkeeper with a checklist. Rolled carpets, jade statues, bolts of cloth, chests of spices, and lockboxes of jewelry are piled here, awaiting categorization. I sit on a velvet pillow within a curled brass enclosure, waiting my turn with the bookkeeper. As I wonder if I’ll be jammed in storage somewhere or placed high on a shelf to gather dust, a door leading farther into the manor swings open and a beautiful woman enters.
She has a dark, olive-skinned complexion, wide-set eyes, and icy, regal features. She is dressed in jewel-studded robes and a golden snake-headed circlet nestles in her thick black hair. She is haunting grandeur wrapped around brutality, breathtaking in her majesty and ferocity. This is a predator, a hunter, a warrior queen. The bookkeeper bows his head in greeting, which seems silly, like a rabbit waving at a wolf. “Greetings, Lady Rashida,” he says with great respect in Coptic.
“Is this everything?” the woman asks, gaze darting over every trinket and bauble.
“Indeed,” he replies. “All the gifts for our master.”
“Your master,” she snaps. “My compatriot.”
“Of course, of course,” he says, grimacing. “I did not intend offense, dear lady.”
She gives him a baleful stare, locking him in place for an awful second. Then she shakes her head in disgust. “Get out. Finish your tallies later.”
He nods and backs away, all but dashing from the room. The woman sighs as he leaves, then begins examining each of the items. She doesn’t spend much time with anything, doesn’t seem to care about the wealth in front of her, sparing but a moment for each piece before moving on to the next. She runs a hand over the bolts of cloth, taps the ornate statues, fiddles with the jewelry and spices, every movement cold and precise.
At least, until she turns to me.
The moment her eyes lock on to my brass cage, her composure changes completely. She hunches over, features freezing, arms drifting down to her sides, looking like she’s ready to pounce. She stays like that for a minute, studying me. Then she stalks forward, picks up my cage, and rips it open in one smooth motion. Brass pieces clatter against the floor as she holds my pillow up to eye level and snarls.
“You come to my lands wrapped in darkness. The scent of ruin hangs heavy about you,” she says softly. “What are you, wretched thing? Tell me now, for you will never have the chance again.”
She’s a god. I can finally feel it, now that she’s so close; I can sense her divinity through the haze of spells inside my head. My mouth drops open in surprise, but nothing emerges—I haven’t spoken in over a century.
I’m not even sure I can.
“A spy? An assassin?” she asks, intense. “Who holds your reins, and why have they sent you?”
Her question strikes a nerve deep inside me. My reins? I may have spent more than a hundred years as a beheaded toy, but never for a second was I the servant of another. The warrior maiden in me, the Valkyrie, rises for the first time in ages, incensed at the notion, and with her return, I find my voice. “I am no one’s pet,” I spit, the words hoarse and hollow. “I am shackled, yes, but not by choice—never by choice.”
Her eyes grow wide, and I feel her judgment like the glare of the sun. “A fighter, I see. But if it is not choice that brings you here, then what?”
“Defeat,” I say, looking away as the grief floods me. “I defied my nature, and for a hundred years, I have suffered for it.”
The woman gives me a voracious smile that seems to bare too many teeth. “Do you desire freedom, then?”
Of course I do. But something tells me this woman is looking for a different reply. She wants to hear what the Valkyrie’s answer would be, and I am all too happy to give it. “I want revenge,” I hiss.
The woman’s smile changes, shifts from hostile to joyous. “A goddess sits before me,” she whispers. “Broken by her past and hidden by vile spells, but a goddess all the same. I shall release you, little fighter. I shall hear your story, become a part of it, and one day, rejoice in its bloody end.”
She holds me by the hair with her left hand, letting the pillow drop away, and brings up her right. Wicked claws sprout from her fingertips, and she digs them into the golden seal on my neck. With a roar, she tears it from me. The enchantments collapse in a calamitous burst of sparks, and I feel relief for the first time in a century. At last, the pain in my mind is silenced. She sets me down and I begin to change, to reassume the form chosen by my dwindling pool of believers. Veins writhe and flex, spilling out of my neck like crimson roots. Bones click, skin stretches, and blood thunders as my body rebuilds itself. Weak as I am, I know it will take hours, but in the end, I will be whole again.
My eyes close, and we stay quiet for a time as I enjoy the simple peace of freedom. Then my curiosity grows, forcing me to break the silence. “Who are you?” I ask the woman as I re-form.
“I am the protector, the One Before Whom Evil Trembles,” she says, bending down beside me. “I am Sekhmet, and you are welcome in my lands.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and I see in her eyes she understands the depths of my gratitude.
“And you, little fighter?”
I sigh. “Freya, though I feel unworthy of the name.”
She shrugs. “Then choose another, and fight for the honor of returning to the old one.”
That brings a smile to my lips. “Perhaps I shall.”
&
nbsp; “Who?” she asks, leaning in, and I can tell she isn’t wondering what my new name will be. “Who did this? Who must die? The promise of death sings in my soul, and I would know the name of your foe, a title for this hymn of destruction.”
A hundred years of hate fill me as I recall the man. My powers wither, my pantheon fades in lands far removed, and all I have left is my revenge. He must die. How else can I have any right to call myself a god? My eyes narrow, and I clench a half-formed fist as I spit his name.
“Ares.”
* * *
“I looked, believe me,” I say to my friends. “For centuries, I sought him, and for centuries, I was denied. Sekhmet became a good friend of mine, and our adventures could fill libraries.” I glance at her, smiling.
“But never again did I catch the barest whisper of Ares. My strength dwindled and, alongside it, the call for vengeance. I pulled away, withdrew from the divine, and, as I traveled the New World, became convinced my quest was pointless. In the end, I committed myself to a mental hospital in Florida, intent on spending the rest of my existence there.”
“And that’s where I came in,” Nathan adds, a touch of wonder in his voice.
“Precisely, my priest,” I say in a soft voice, feeling a little awed by my own sprawling history.
“And now he’s working with Finemdi?” Nāmaka says. “That’s what Samantha’s little note means, yes?”
“Must be,” I say. “She reviews most of the new gods they get—I’m guessing he joined up voluntarily, but she probably still had to give him a once-over.”
“Fine, wonderful, but think about your shared history—that’s nine hundred years gone,” Nāmaka says. “How would Samantha even know any of it? And why would she send you after Ares? None of this makes any sense.”
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