I step away and snatch up his flashlight from where it fell, shining it over myself. “Ugh. Find a cleaning service, to start,” I mutter, surveying the damage. My clothes are a mess of grime and blood. “So, you’re Kirsten’s Mr. Fix-It, I gather?”
He nods dumbly. “What are you?” he asks.
I give him a level stare, then draw myself up. “I’m a god, you moron.”
“A … god?”
“Yeah. Rar, smite thee and all that. You just tried to snuff an immortal. Bad call.”
“I’m sorry, you’re what?”
“I swear, I need to put all this on a business card,” I say to myself. I lean down and stare at him. “Hey. Look at the birdie,” I whisper, then hold up my hand and trigger another illusion. A tongue of gold-tinted fire blazes from my fingers, bathing the hillside in a cheerful glow. Harv leaps back, pressing himself against the earth.
“We have a lot to discuss,” I say, and toss the illusion at the tree above us, where it erupts and flows to cover it like a lazy, living carpet. I creep closer, bearing down on Harv as golden sparks rain around us.
“And you’re going to tell me everything.”
* * *
The sight of the city below is intoxicating. I could stare at it for hours.
“Strangest thing, learning there are gods from one who wants her name in lights,” Harv says from beside me. We’re still on the hill, sitting side by side and enjoying the view.
“Let’s just say we’re both having odd evenings,” I say with a faint smile.
He nods at that, and we watch for another minute in silence. We’ve just wrapped up a delightful conversation about my future, some mutual concerns, and whether I’d be throwing him down a mountain for his insolence. Fortunately for Harv, he chose a highly cooperative approach, involving a bit of behind-the-scenes help for me and the hope of a few extra years of life for him. It seems some good might come out of this evening for us both.
“Sorry again about the, um, high dive,” he says out of the blue, oddly awkward for such an imposing man.
“As long as you can get Kirsten’s dad on my side, we’re square,” I say. “Well, that and a ride home.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “She won’t like this, you know.”
“And that’s just the icing on top,” I say, grinning. He chuckles at that, probably imagining her reaction.
“So a goddess, huh?” he says after another pause.
“That’s me.”
“I never believed in God.”
“And now you have your pick,” I say, sweeping out a hand at the stars above us. “We’re all listening. Though it’s in your best interest if I’m the one you worship—only way I can guarantee you those extra years.”
“Worship?” he repeats, raising his eyebrows. “How does that work? Find a Church of Sara?”
“Freya,” I correct, gesturing at myself. “You pray to her, believe in her—in me—and never stray from that conviction, you’re pretty much set.”
“Freya? Wait, I think I’ve heard of you…” he says. Then his brow furrows in concentration.
I’m confused for a moment, wondering what he’s thinking, until that vicious little mind of his sends a twitch of curiosity my way. Ah, he’s trying it now—not a man to waste time, I see. The curiosity becomes commitment, reaching out as a delicious pulse of hopeful faith. It finds me, and the connection strengthens, rebounds, and grows. A whisper echoes from his mind to mine: Can you be real?
I smile and give him a slow nod. “In the flesh,” I say, and send a thought back to him, a divine vision of me as I once was; ancient, armored, unstoppable. Freya the goddess, the warrior, the lover. My past and, one day soon, future.
He laughs. For a moment, there’s a bit of childlike giddiness there, a sense of joy completely at odds with the shark of a man he presents to the world. “You’re her. You—I didn’t realize it could feel so reassuring. To know there’s someone listening.” His faith flares, and that hopeful curiosity solidifies into belief. Just like that, one more worshipper adds himself to my paltry flock.
It’s almost a cheat, sitting here—true believers shouldn’t need to see their god to know she exists—but I work with what I’m given.
“Whatever I can do, it’s yours,” he says. “A good word? Sure. But if things get rough, you need more than that, give me a call. My services are just the beginning of the pain I can bring.”
“Deal,” I say, unlocking my Mim and handing it to him. “I’ll add you as ‘Professional Pain.’”
He laughs, punching in his digits. “My number. Unless you do the ‘voices in your head’ trick…?”
“Not my thing,” I lie. Truth is, I’m not yet strong enough to hold full conversations with my worshippers, especially long-distance. The best I can do is send visions, emotions, and symbolic imagery, and even then, they have something of a range limit. These days, as long as I’m in the same city as a follower I want to contact, I’m pretty sure I can get through, but any farther than that and even the simplest sensation or image will probably fall apart.
Strangely enough, I can hear prayers clear as crystal, no matter the source. Perks of the job, I guess.
“Well, glad you pissed off the boss’s daughter,” he says. “Go easy on her, all right? She’s not so bad.”
He says it casually enough, but there’s a sudden wariness in his stance that makes me think this man actually cares about her. It may be oddly placed, but that capacity for concern moves him up another notch in my book. “She’s safe,” I say, making a mental note to go over things with Sekhmet as soon as I get back. “Though it’s strange seeing anyone worry about her. She’s kind of terrible. No offense.”
“Stockholm syndrome,” he says, smiling. “But seriously, she’s a teenager stuck under a microscope, trying to impress the world while dealing with all the usual static girls her age endure. My job is making sure a lot of the unusual static that comes with the spotlight never touches her.”
“Like me?”
He grins. “Don’t like my chances there.”
“Someone’s learning.” I stretch and pat him on the back. “Well, this has been fun and all, but I’d kind of like to get going. Any chance you brought an ATV?”
He shakes his head. “Sedan, sorry. Bit of a hike uphill, and I parked pretty far back, too. Tell you what, though—we’re almost halfway down. I’ll head up, grab the car, and meet you at the bottom. I’ll text when I’m at my car so you know when to start.”
“That works,” I say, examining the hillside neighborhood below us.
“Great,” he says, getting to his feet. Then he smiles. “Oh, and most of my tools seem to have gone missing. If you happen to come across any on your way down, mind picking them up for me? They aren’t cheap.”
“No promises,” I say, laughing.
He waves and begins trudging uphill. I snort again, then lean back on my palms and return my gaze to the city. All those teeming millions, each with their own hopes and hazards to navigate. Somewhere out there—at least, according to the Graces—three other gods are having adventures of their own, and I haven’t the faintest idea who they might be. Mahesh is probably burning the midnight oil trying to keep me in the lead for Switch, while Kirsten waits impatiently to hear about Harv’s success in getting me to drop it. Socialites writhe on pulsing dance floors, waiters bus tables and talk shop as their restaurants close for the night, and moms and dads prepare lunches for the next day.
My eyes settle once more on the stars, and I wonder who else they might be shining on. Somewhere far from here, Ares spins new schemes of war and violence for Finemdi, Apep hungers to kill all life and light, and Garen seethes and plots vengeance against me. Actually, I’m just guessing on that last one—he might have decided to open a taco truck, for all I know. Something tells me he’s about as likely to let go of a vendetta as Sekhmet, though.
Speaking of, I wonder how she and Nathan are doing…?
A little twist of anxious, seeth
ing curiosity settles in my chest at the thought. I drum my fingers in the dirt, trying to relax, to return to the stars and city lights, but rather involuntarily, my gaze twitches to the spray of grit-caked blood I left nearby. Plenty of uses for the red stuff, I think, a pack of scrying spells marching through my mind. It’s not like I’d even need one of my preprepared contingencies, either. This is child’s play.
No, no, we’re not spying on our friends. I shake my head and deepen my breathing, desperately hoping my flighty hindbrain will fixate on something else.
My restless fingers start kicking up sprays of sand.
They could be in trouble, a little voice whispers helpfully. Might be worth checking in, just in case.
I wince, trying to resist.
Just a quick check?
“Ugh,” I say, getting to my feet. “Meddlesome goddess.”
I walk over to where I ditched Harv’s knife, spend a few seconds searching through the loose dirt, and bend down to pick it up. Dropping to my knees, I use it to gouge a rough, bowl-shaped furrow in the earth, then pack down the sand with the flat of my hand. I stare at the depression for a moment, feeling disgusted with myself, then sigh and dig the knife into my wrist. I grimace as blood flows from the wound, glinting dully in the starlight and pooling in the hollow I’ve created.
I hold the knife in place, using it to keep the injury open until there’s a thick puddle of the stuff before me. Then I set the weapon aside, let my arm heal, and begin to focus on the fluid.
If I were trying to peek at anyone besides Nathan, I’d be completely out of luck. Scrying isn’t particularly hard, but for a weakened little witch like myself, viewing someone out of the blue—especially without a lock of hair or some other personal effect—would be like trying to climb Everest in a bikini. Nathan, however, is bound to me through his faith and my magic. All those spells I’ve been teaching him? Each is like a piece of myself, embedded in his soul, and tracing that is as easy as staring into a mirror.
Sad little weaves of magic drip from my fingers, sinking into the blood and turning its surface smooth as glass. The pool thrashes once, erupting for a split second in a crimson frenzy of runes and gnarled spikes. Then it flattens, glistens, reflects, and suddenly I’m looking through a tiny window into somewhere else.
Strains of jazz, laughter, and idle chatter reach my ears first, followed by a warm, orange-tinted glow. The scene sharpens, resolving into a beautiful room of wood panels, rough brickwork, and tasteful tile. Exposed beams stretch overhead, bathed in light from antique chandeliers. Beneath them, cheerful clientele exchange lively chatter over mixed drinks.
A saloon, I realize, noting the period decor.
I twiddle my fingers, pulling at the weaves like a puppeteer, and the view snaps back, shudders, searches. An impressive bar comes into focus, a liquor-stuffed centerpiece crafted from an old apothecary’s cabinet. Smiling bartenders mix cocktails and chat with customers seated on swiveling stools. My view blurs, swinging left to show me a wall riddled with cubbyholes and accented by thirteen old-fashioned umbrellas. There, seated across from each other in carved benches set just below a candle-lit shelf, Nathan and Sekhmet chat happily.
There they are, safe and sound, I think, giving my friends a wistful smile. Satisfied?
“So here she is, surrounded by twenty cats and kittens, all gifts for the new couple, and she knows most of these creatures will never survive the trip home,” Sekhmet is saying, eyes flashing with glee. “So she decides to rescue them.”
“You’re kidding,” Nathan says, hanging on her every word. “But she’s lost almost all—”
“Of her clothing, yes!” Sekhmet laughs.
“Really?” I shout at the scrying pool as I recognize the tale. She’s gossiping? About me?
“So how did—?” Nathan asks, heedless of my outburst.
“Well, she’s trapped in the bridal suite, yes? Climbing gear lost. Clothes destroyed. Surrounded by gifts of all kinds, cages of prized cats, and … the wedding dress.”
“No,” Nathan says.
“Yes!” Sekhmet slaps the table. “She steals this priceless thing, squeezes herself into it, hides her face with the veil, grabs the damn talisman, and bewitches all twenty cats to follow her out the door beneath the dress!”
The pair burst into crippling laughter, rocking on their benches. I pull back, crossing my arms. Hmph. What, was I supposed to leave the cats?
Eventually, the merriment fades to soft chuckles as Sekhmet finishes the story. She even includes the part about the stained glass window and the drunken monks, the traitor.
Nathan wipes tears from his eyes when it’s over, and stares into Sekhmet’s. They don’t say anything else, but the goofy grins on both of their faces speak volumes.
Okay, that’s enough. I cut the flow of magic and scatter a dash of sand into the pool. The vision freezes, rips, and fades, leaving me on my lonely hillside with all kinds of fun thoughts.
Damn it all. Those two are cute as hell. Seriously, take it from a goddess who knows: There’s some real chemistry there, the kind I was built to celebrate. If they were anyone else, I’d be drooling to find out more about their relationship. As it is … well, I still don’t know how to feel. I think my best bet is ignoring them as much as I’m able. This whole affair remains a diversion I can’t afford, not when so much is at stake.
My phone buzzes, providing a much-needed distraction. I pull it out and read the text; Harv’s reached his car. Groaning for effect, I haul myself to my feet, flip on the flashlight, and begin making my way down the hill, keeping an eye out for the rest of his arsenal as I do. Harv’s right about it being a fairly short hike. Before long, I’m standing in front of a tall fence that separates some wealthy family’s backyard from the untamed wilderness of Mount Hollywood. I skirt the obstacle, walking beside the property until I emerge in a secluded roundabout.
I pull out my phone again, look at the map, and head down the little offshoot of a road for a hundred feet until it connects with Nottingham Avenue. I text Harv to let him know where I am, and it’s barely another minute before his dark sedan pulls alongside me.
“Where to?” he asks as I get in.
“My hotel,” I say, then frown in thought. “I’m guessing you already know where it is.”
“Wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t,” he says with a smirk.
“Great. Time to abuse their cleaning services,” I say, looking myself over with a grimace.
“Try not to get any blood on the upholstery before we get there,” he says.
I immediately stomp my bare, dirty feet on his floor mat, firing an insolent stare at him as I do.
“Happen to find anything that belongs to me on the way down?” he asks, still smiling.
“Kirsten’s good practice for dealing with me, isn’t she?” I say, digging through my bag and pulling out some of his toys. I couldn’t find the baton but managed to locate the rest in my trek downhill.
“You’re a cakewalk in comparison,” he says, pocketing his goodies one by one.
“Am I? Well, Harv, I—”
Rippling, screaming, bewildering chaos wells up in my head, cutting me off as it shudders through me with ecstatic wonderment and weirdness.
You know that screeching feedback you get when a microphone gets too close to a speaker? It’s like that, only inside my mind, and instead of noise, it’s a mottled, thrashing wave of imagery and emotion, uplifting and overpowering in the extreme. I find my hand slapping against the car dashboard in front of me as I struggle to remain upright.
“You okay there?” Harv asks, leaning in with a look of concern.
“Totes,” I snap, trying to shake the sublime strangeness from behind my eyes. “Mind stepping on it? I have some, uh, odd prayers I need to answer.”
He nods at that, and mashes the accelerator.
I spend the return trip to the hotel in anxious silence, trying to tease apart just what’s going on in my mind. I’ve never felt anythin
g like this—it’s like a prayer gone squirrelly. There’s a strange sense of madcap joy mixed in with uneven helpings of confusion, delight, and pain. The warmth of familiarity blends with unmistakable hints of exotic splendor, all of it ricocheting through me from a source that’s at once achingly close yet impossibly odd.
I need to hurry, to know what’s going on. I have no idea what it could mean, but little hints and nuances in this sea of strange are leaving me with the sneaking suspicion my high priest is somehow involved. I think Harv is picking up on my anxiety, because he makes the drive with reckless speed. Those bizarre sensations increase as we near the hotel, and I find myself dreading and hotly anticipating what I’ll find there in equal measure. I thank Harv when he drops me off, then dash upstairs to our rooms, racing to locate the hive that’s spawning these visions.
My heart hammers in my chest as the elevator doors open and I tear down the hall, visions of crackling peril electrifying my mind. I fear the worst, and every footfall seems to come just a second too late to prevent it.
I think Nathan’s in tremendous trouble.
12
SWEET DREAMS
FREYA
Looking back, I’m not sure why I’m so surprised by what I discover. Let’s call it denial.
I skid around a corner, weather a tempest of weird, and blast through the door to Nathan’s room, wrenching the solid wood from its hinges with a burst of inhuman strength, all to find something I’d been planning to ignore forever.
Yeah, Nathan and Sekhmet’s date went great. If you want to measure “fun times” in terms of property damage, then this place is glee ground zero. It looks like a whirlwind of love and claws went to town. Feathers waft through the air, courtesy of several exploded pillows and a bed that looks like it’s been opened up for surgery. The walls are dented with enough force to assume you could measure the cause with a Richter scale, and sad flaps of carpet have been flayed from the room’s floor in odd, crawling patterns.
I stare, jaw dropped in sheer amazement, at the carnage before me. I haven’t a clue how even half of this is possible without construction equipment. The sources of the devastation, currently scrambling in panic, were entwined on one shattered balcony door and some torn chunks of the room’s sofa before I made my dramatic entrance.
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