Slay

by Matthew Laurence

  “Er, yeaaaah…” Nathan says, starting to feel this girl might not exactly be the “relatable mortal pal” he envisioned. “You, uh, want me to walk you out?”

  “Nah, I’ll be right behind ya. Just need to send a few e-mails.”

  “Ah, all right,” Nathan says, backing away. “I’d … better catch up with Sekhmet before she, like, tries to hail a cab with a security guard’s arm or something.”

  “Good luck!” Samantha says, giving him a happy wave.

  Nathan returns the gesture, takes a moment to lament the loss of the date night he had planned, then gets up from his shelter and begins following the trail of destruction to the exit.

  * * *

  From behind the doorway, Samantha watches Nathan go, waits a breath, and then stands. Her expression changes as she surveys the emptied room, silly smile refining into a look of amused satisfaction. She begins padding forward, pulling up the sleeve of her lab coat as she does. She checks the pale web of spellcraft there, watching as the threads of magic that represent Sekhmet and Freya’s high priest move away. Confident they’ve left for good, she reaches into a pocket and squeezes the etched lodestone that lies within.

  Instantly, the lights die and the nearest alarm boxes go silent, their last wails hushed in strangled screeches. Samantha spares a glance for the lifeless camera blister mounted high above, then makes her way to one of the display cases.

  As she moves, she brings a humming porcelain flower out of another pocket and, in one smooth motion, sweeps it forward to give the security glass a dainty tap. Instantly, the screen shatters, thick chunks of safety glass clattering to the floor. Samantha reaches in, withdraws the object she spent the better part of a month putting a far more elaborate scheme into acquiring, and slips it into the lining of her coat with a grin. Sekhmet’s antics made things much simpler, and all the goddess had needed was the barest push.

  Her work complete, Samantha tosses a panicked look onto her face, clutches her arms to her chest in mock dismay, and begins running for the exits.

  15

  TRICK SHOT

  FREYA

  I’m awoken from my late-afternoon nap by the faint sounds of conversation from next door. Groggily, I check the bedside clock, wondering if I’ve overslept. Weren’t they supposed to be back a lot later?

  At first I’m worried something’s gone wrong, but their chatter sounds unconcerned. Maybe they changed their plans.

  Shaking my head, I lean over and grab my laptop, telling myself there’s never a bad time to tend my social networks. I’ve just started reading my latest e-mails when there’s a knock on my door.

  “Come in!” I yell, shifting the computer so I can sit upright in my bed.

  The door swings open and my friends enter. “Hey, guys!” I say absently, still reading entries as they approach. “How was—What?”

  One of the e-mails has caught my eye, its subject line tearing a surprised gasp from my throat. It’s from Samantha, and I bolt out of bed in shock as its full meaning smashes home.

  Sekhmet registers my concern and rushes to my side. “Little fighter…?” she prompts.

  Wordlessly, I hold the laptop out to her, thumb on the e-mail, and her eyes widen as they flick across its title.

  “Guys?” Nathan says, looking between us. “Clue a lowly mortal in?”

  “‘Urgent,’” Sekhmet reads. She pauses as she takes in the rest of the message, and her voice hardens when she reads it aloud: “‘Hawaiian friends captured by Finemdi.’”

  “Oh,” Nathan says, deflating.

  “They’re in New York,” Sekhmet says, scanning the e-mail. “That’s how she knows—she just performed their intake evaluation.”

  “That was—” Nathan begins, then shakes his head. “How the hell did they catch them? I mean, after all these years, you’d think they’d have learned a thing or two about staying hidden.”

  “Ares,” I explain, arms crossed and lips twisted. “It must be part of his new drive to expand Finemdi’s ‘stockpile.’ He’s trying to weaponize us, remember? Looks like our friends just got recruited.”

  “We must rescue them,” Sekhmet says. “We cannot allow our allies to remain imprisoned, much less provide further resources to our foes should their wills be broken.”

  “I agree, but it’s not like they stashed them in a cardboard box under the overpass—those girls are at their headquarters,” I say, miserable. “Getting to them will mean dealing with crazy defenses, multiple pantheons of brainwashed gods, and Ares.”

  “We must do so eventually,” Sekhmet persists. “Can we not—”

  “No!” I snap. “We have a plan for a reason! We’re not strong enough to deal with Ares by himself, let alone fight through him and the rest of Finemdi for a rescue! This—oh, this sucks.”

  There’s a tense silence as I stew. Several unhappy minutes pass, Sekhmet pacing, me glaring at the city from the balcony, and Nathan fidgeting awkwardly. “Well, at least they’re all in the same place now,” he pipes up, clearly uncomfortable with the mood. “I mean, you were going to be taking down Finemdi and Ares anyway, right? Grab the sisters on the way out? Three birds, one stone?”

  “Not the time to start digging for silver linings, Nate,” I mutter.

  “Right, got it,” he says. Another awkward pause threatens to stretch, and I notice him squirm at the thought. He really hates a bad mood.

  “Anything I can—I mean, want anything?” he says, sounding a little desperate. “That cookie shop you like isn’t far.”

  My lips twist. I do appreciate his efforts to lighten the mood, but part of me wants to sulk a little longer. Then again, I think this offer is more for him, not us.

  Besides … cookies.

  “Fine,” I say in a stubborn voice. “And a brownie.”

  Nathan nods with a relieved grin and takes out his phone, hunting down directions for the store. I hide a smile of my own. Lovable little mortal, always hoping for the best. We head out together once he has the route mapped, Nathan driving and adding idle chitchat to plaster over the pain left in the wake of Samantha’s message. It helps—for a time.

  I polish off the last of the cookies just before we return to the hotel, and my mood darkens with their passing. The treats help, but I have a serious problem to consider: I was a registered god at Impulse Station once, just like the Hawaiian sisters. If Ares is dead-set on reclaiming everything they lost and then some, how long before he picks up my trail?

  And who’s to say he hasn’t already started?

  I try to relax after we get back to our rooms, to lose myself in online shopping and advance reviews of Switch, but it’s no use. My goals might be completely unachievable at this point. I mean, I still can hope for enough success in Hollywood to let me challenge Finemdi and Ares before they hunt me down, but that could be years, even decades away, if it’s possible at all. Bleh.

  It’s my only option, though. No sense in abandoning everything until I know for sure. I sigh and give Mahesh a call. He’s full of news about Switch and potential auditions, as well as a few high-profile clubs he’d like me to visit so I’ll stay in the spotlight. I smile as we chat; his enthusiasm is infectious. I let his suggestions and schedules wash over me, making notes and adding ideas where I can, determined to keep myself from getting lost in self-pity. There’s a war on, and this is merely a setback. I will win.

  Phone calls and inner turmoil eventually land me poolside, relaxing in one of the deck chairs and soaking up some sun (no, I can’t tan, if you’re wondering). I’m watching cat videos on my phone and sipping a cocktail when Nathan sits down beside me with a sigh. “Hey, Nate,” I say, toasting him with the drink.

  “Hey,” he says, settling in. “Bad time?”

  I shrug. “Frustrating. I’ll be okay. How about you?”

  “Good.” He pauses. “Weird.”

  I sit up, setting phone and mojito aside. Ooh, what have we here? “Sekhmet?”

  “Sort of. It’s mostly me.” He frowns, thin
king. “Have you—I mean, you’ve dated a god before, right?”

  “Nathan, I had a husband at one point.”

  “Oh. Right…” he says after a moment of confusion. “I remember reading that. ‘Otter’?”

  That gets him a snort of amusement. “Ódr,” I say. Then my smile fades. “The perpetually misplaced. Spent centuries getting over his heedless, wanderlusting hide. Thank the Fates his part in my myths was minor. I loved him, wept for him, and, well, can you imagine what that’s like? To have part of who you are defined as a devoted wife to an absent husband?”

  He gives me an odd look.

  “You’re running into something like that right now, aren’t you?” I ask, watching him.

  He’s silent a little longer, then nods. “I think so. Look, I love the girl—I really do. It’s just … she’s never going to be able to change, is she?”

  Ah. I think he’s finally starting to understand one of the major downsides to being a god. You think it’s hard on relationships, just try being one of us, kid.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Nothing, really. Things are great. But … I worry about her. She still has problems with the world, her place in it. More than you, I think, and more than she lets on.”

  “She always did try to hide any sign of weakness. Predator thing.”

  “I figured. I just hate seeing her lose control of herself.” He pauses. “Shoot, we never told you about our date, did we?”

  “No…?”

  Nathan laughs. “Okay, buckle up.” With that, he proceeds to unload a lively tale of museum theft in New York, and at turns, I find myself impressed at his cleverness in using the Graces’ portal network, amused by Sekhmet’s attempted larceny, and deeply interested in Samantha’s guest appearance.

  “I can see how that might get you thinking about the … complications in dating a god,” I say when he finishes.

  “Eh.” He shrugs. “More than anything, it makes me feel bad for her. She has fun in the moment, but when it fades, I know she’s left worrying if she’ll ever be able to fit in.”

  “I never realized that was something she wanted.”

  “It’s not really about taking statues of herself out of museums,” he explains. “It’s about trying to live in a society that doesn’t want to let her.”

  “Ah.”

  “The world gets her down in general. I mean, she’s not wrong—we do accept a lot of bad stuff like it’s nothing—but I think she really stews in it.”

  “Anything else in particular…?”

  “Few days ago,” he says. “She was reading about an attack on a girls’ school. I could see her getting furious, twitching, like she wanted to personally tear apart the guys who did it. Then she closed her eyes, shook her head, and went for her phone.”

  “Calling one of her organizations?”

  He nods. “Any idea how many she has?”

  “Dozens, I think. She’s crazy-rich—centuries of investments will do that—and I know she sinks most of it into protecting women. Probably how she’s managed to stay so strong, too.” I’ve put a bit of thought into that one, and it’s the best explanation I’ve managed to find. Seriously, that girl has power.

  “Probably,” he repeats, sounding distant. “Point is, I can see she’s hurting. Her whole purpose is stopping stuff like that, and the best she can do is try to send the right people to the right place. She knows it’s better like this, that she can get more done this way, but I don’t think she feels it.”

  I shake my head. “She won’t.”

  “Sucks.”

  “Sucks,” I agree. I stare at him for a moment, then frown. “So that’s really it?”

  “What?”

  “You wish you could cheer her up when she’s feeling down? You’re dating a cat goddess who’s older than the pyramids and that’s the only thing that’s weird? C’mon, give me something.”

  He laughs. “Okay, okay, there might be other things.”

  “Tell! Or confess.” I flutter my hands at him. “Whatever.”

  “She’s obsessed with anything from her past. Gets super possessive about it, too.”

  “Preach it,” I say, thinking of her ritual knife, the dumbest airplane carry-on choice of all time.

  “Oh, bonus: no sense of shame. A waiter spilled a glass of wine on her, so she stripped out of her dress in the middle of the restaurant and took it to the kitchen to clean it.”

  “Yes!” I say, giggling. “Try getting her to remember to use the changing rooms when she’s clothes-shopping.”

  “And privacy?” he says, getting into it now. “What’s that? To her, ‘locked door’ means ‘push slightly harder.’ I mean, it’s not like I can mislead her or keep secrets since she eats deceit for breakfast—”

  “Can’t fool her with illusions, either,” I interrupt. “I’ve tried! Nothing.”

  “I don’t mind that part, but man, there are some things you don’t want your lady friend walking in on. Ever.”

  I think about that one, then snap my fingers when I realize what he’s talking about. “Oh! Yeah … gods don’t really go to the bathroom. I kind of forget you mortals use it for more than showers and makeup.”

  “Her too,” he says with a little groan. “Also, adrenaline junkie with complete disregard for personal safety. Skydiving, BASE jumping, free climbing, cliff diving, you name it. So glad she can heal people, because she takes me with her, too.”

  “Did she at least quit it with the UFC fights?”

  “Yeah, but only after the organizers started getting suspicious,” he says, shaking his head. “Though I think she just replaced it with the bar crawling.”

  “What, she join an underground fighting ring?”

  “No, she goes out to nightclubs, lounges, whatever; waits for creeps to stalk her. Bonus points if they try to slip her roofies. Wanna guess what comes next?”

  “Beats the ever-living snot out of ’em?”

  He touches his nose. “She says she’s making sure they can’t hurt other women, but I think part of her just wants to pound scumbags into the dirt.”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  He sighs, and it’s a contented one. “It’s all about perspective, I guess. I think you have to expect some strangeness when you’re dating an undying, unchanging badass from ancient Egypt. And what was I expecting? Bickering over IKEA furniture?”

  “Not much precedent for your relationship, I’ll give you that.”

  “No, and I love it,” he says, beaming. “So … refreshing. For both of us.”

  “You do make her happy,” I say, a bittersweet smile on my lips.

  “He does at that,” Sekhmet says, walking up to join us. She’s wearing a bikini, sunglasses, and enormous floppy hat.

  “We were just gossiping about you,” I say, waving at a nearby chair.

  She tosses down a hotel towel and leans back, enjoying the sun. “Good things, I trust?” she asks, smiling.

  “I told her you don’t cook or clean, but you do mix a mean cocktail,” Nathan says, watching her recline with a silly grin.

  “The proper priorities, as I’ve explained,” she says, settling into her chair. “In ancient times, only heavy drinking could stay my wrath. Surely that tradition deserves remembrance.”

  “Surely,” I say, laughing and taking a pointed sip of my mojito.

  I glance at Sekhmet, who’s looking at Nathan with happy, faraway eyes, and suddenly another image flashes at me: Sekhmet in the car when we first arrived in LA, straight-backed and alert, fingers flexing, eyes darting out the window. She’s changed. My smile slips as a rather obvious truth slaps me. Her upbeat attitude? All that joy and restraint? It’s him. And me. Hell, even her speech has gotten more casual.

  I guess I’ve been too distracted these past few months to notice. Such a poor excuse, too. I’m not sure how I missed the degree to which their relationship has warped her. Sure, Sekhmet might be imposing a bit of herself on Nathan, but because he’s a conduit for my
will in this world, there’s a whole lot more Freya flowing in the other direction.

  I wonder how far this can go. I mean, gods are a product of their believers, but it’s not like either of us has many of those. In the absence of man’s prayer, what keeps us so single-minded? Can we change our stripes? I was able to ignore the call of my mantle for years by burying myself in apathy, but is that the only way?

  What happens when a god invites another into their heart? If this continues, where will it leave Sekhmet? Some unprecedented stuff is happening here, and I don’t have any answers. I find myself hungry to uncover those truths, and there’s nothing I can do except watch from the sidelines.

  I sigh and take another sip of my drink. Toss it on the pile, I suppose. One more thing to keep an eye on.

  We chat for a few hours by the pool, skirting all topics that might bring down the mood, and for a while, it actually works. Friends can be the best medicine, and that goes double when you’re a god of love. Eventually, however, the sky begins to darken and guests start leaving the deck, each intent on adding their own spice to Hollywood’s nightlife. Like all good things, even this fine moment cannot last, and we soon follow suit, making our way indoors with the setting of the sun.

  Nathan and Sekhmet start making plans for the evening, and I’m quick to shoo them out on another date night, letting me follow Mahesh’s advice and enjoy a club without the two of them getting frisky nearby. Distance helps, and with enough pounding music, alcohol, and dance partners, I can ignore the tickling in the back of my head from the pair. Boulevard3 is my chosen place of peace, and while it’s not exactly going to inspire meditation and oneness, it does have free tacos and chocolate strawberries. Practically the same thing.

  I arrive and dance my way into a blur of lights, booze, and bodies for several hours. It’s a mind-smashing event of the sort Dionysus would enjoy—not one of those things you do to feel better about yourself, but to keep from feeling worse.

  At some godsforsaken hour when more-responsible people are starting to awaken, I finally stumble out into the warm Los Angeles night, pawing at my phone to call a cab. I squint at the too-bright screen, swaying a little as I flee the crowds. Maybe I’ll walk. Camera flashes pop nearby, but I can’t tell if they’re directed at me or some other train wreck of a celebrity. I’m certain I make a wonderfully disheveled sight: lipstick smeared, hair in disarray, dress wrinkled and twisted, tottering on mile-high Louboutins into the darkness.