Slay
Page 21
I’m not actually sure how it’s possible for me to get drunk, but I’ve had a lot of practice at it over the ages. My pantheon has more than its fair share of professionals when it comes to adult beverages, and for some reason, we can all get hammered. Discussion question for the class: If it’s nigh impossible to poison a god, how the hell does that work? Well, whatever—I’m way too out of it to care.
“Ms. Valen?” a high, smirking voice calls out of the black. “Stupid freak?” it adds in Old West Norse.
I sigh and turn around, trying to plaster on a cheerful smile. “Mr. Gallows! What a surprise!” I chirp messily.
Sebastian steps into the little pool of light in this wonderful deserted lot I’ve managed to find. He’s wearing the same suit and joyless smile as before. “A pleasant one, I hope?” he says, sidling closer.
“Always happy to meet a member of the Fourth Estate,” I say, forcing myself not to stand up straight.
“Mm. So well spoken,” he says. “For a festering pisstub,” he tacks on in Old East Norse.
“Why thank you,” I say, doing my best to ignore the insult. This is bad. Battle may be the ultimate tool for sobering up and I can already feel the haze lifting, but I still have a long way to go before it’s situation normal upstairs.
“I just had a few follow-up questions, hope you don’t mind,” Sebastian says.
I give him a lazy blink. “Not at all. Fire away.”
“Who led the Norman conquest of England and became its first Norman king?” he asks in a smooth, friendly tone.
Oh! William the Conqueror! That’s an easy—Gah! Stupid drunken goddess! I barely stop myself from blurting out the correct answer, screwing my face into confusion as quickly as I can.
“Sorry, I’ve got noooo idea,” I say, putting some extra slur into it.
“No worries,” he says, adding, “Idiot leech,” under his breath in Proto-Norse.
Honestly, that one just impresses me—I haven’t heard that tongue in well over a millennia. I think he might have consulted some linguistics experts for this.
He waits a moment, searching for a reaction, then moves on. “Do you believe in God?”
I’m about to ask, “Which one?” before I realize what he’s doing and stop myself. Thankfully, this is another answer Mahesh gave me, so I don’t need to spin something on the spot. I’m a good Christian girl, with just a touch of doubt to appease the less religious portions of this country.
“I do,” I say, nodding eagerly. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I feel like there just has to be someone out there, y’know?”
“Mm,” he says, watching me very carefully with that one. “I’m curious; how did you ace your audition for Switch, anyway?”
“Showed up, said my lines, did it well,” I say, trying to hide my increasing frustration. “How else would I do it?”
“Great question,” he says, eyes boring into mine. “Because I have it on good authority that you should have never gotten the role; that someone else was a lock for it until you showed up. Heard it from that someone herself in another interview, actually.”
I freeze. Kirsten.
“It’s why I came to see you in the first place, actually,” he continues. “When my bosses caught wind of such a … unique talent, well, they just had to know more.”
It was her, I think, staggered by the consequences of our silly feud. Kirsten probably complained to anyone and everyone who would listen about my sudden rise to fame, and one way or another, those whispers found their way to Finemdi.
All that squabbling for exposure, and I never once thought it might actually draw a different kind of attention.
I’m an idiot.
“So, any comment?” Sebastian prompts, seeming to drink in my hesitation.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say at last, trying to quash my latest round of self-doubt. “Success can rub people the wrong way. Do well enough, and even complete strangers will try to tear you down.”
“Rotting coward,” he says in quiet Dalecarlian, before continuing in English with, “I know just what you mean.”
“Hey, sorry, didn’t quite catch that first part,” I say, rubbing my head and playing up the “drunken socialite” angle. “Guess I’m a little out of it.”
He keeps staring at me for another few seconds, and it looks like he’s wrestling with some internal decision. Then his expression softens, and I’m shocked to see a mix of remorse and relief surface there. “No, no, it’s my fault,” he says in a very different tone. It’s no longer smarmy and over the top, and I see his whole posture has changed, relaxing and pulling back. “Just a little game I like to play with stars—see if they can catch different languages. Please don’t think anything of it.”
“Oh,” I say. “Did I win?”
He chuckles, and it actually sounds genuine. “Big-time. Hey, y’know, this was really unprofessional of me, cornering you here on your off hours. I’m sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking. Can I get you a lift home? Call you a cab or something?”
Is he…? I pause, frowning, and he laughs and jerks a thumb behind him. “Or I can just shut up and leave you alone. Seriously, you didn’t have to answer all those questions. I really appreciate the help.”
He is! He bought it! Holy crap, I’m in the clear. He must have decided I’m just a normal human after all, and since he’s no longer trying to get a rise out of me, getting me home safe is the least he can do. Hey, go me.
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, Sebastian. Write somethin’ nice about me,” I say with a wave.
“Count on it,” he says with a charming wink and a wave of his own. “Good night, Ms.—”
A dull streak howls out of the night, smashing through the back of his skull and continuing on through my chest with the force of a nuclear sledgehammer. I’m picked off my feet as the thing plows through me in a welter of red, sending me sailing onto my back. The booming echo of a high-powered rifle reaches me around the same time I hit the asphalt.
My hands twitch and curl, clutching at the air as my body short-circuits. I don’t need a spine to control my limbs, but this kind of trauma is more than enough to play havoc with their movement. My vision swims, fading in and out as I try to get ahold of what’s left of myself. It’s like lifting a boulder, but I finally manage to crane my neck up to get a good look at the wound in my chest.
Actually, calling it a “chest” at this point is being charitable—there’s a comically large hole in me, and while it’s mending slowly, the sheer size of the thing is going to take a while to heal. My lip curls in sadness and disgust as I notice what’s left of Sebastian; he’s all kinds of dead, headed for a funeral that will be firmly closed-casket.
I let my head slide back to the pavement, staring at the harsh sodium lights of the barren lot and wondering what the hell just happened. A minute later, footsteps reach my ears, sharp and confident. There’s a crunch-crunch as they cross the gravel at the edge of the lot, lighter taps as they whisk over the pavement, and finally slow scrapes as they edge around the obstacle course of blood and unmentionable bits surrounding the two of us.
My eyes widen, shining in the dark as a figure emerges from the night to lean over me with a dangerous, disgusting leer. Dark brown eyes twitch with glee, and whatever blood I have left runs cold.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Garen says.
16
CRASH
FREYA
“A promise kept,” he adds.
“Reliable men are so hard to find,” I say. I notice the distinct shape of a massive rifle sticking out of a rucksack on his back. “Is that a fifty cal in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
He kneels, looking me over. “Considering how much those bullets cost, I’m just pleased it only took one.”
“Are you calling me a cheap date?”
He laughs at that, then flicks me between the eyes. “Stalling, aren’t you? How far are you from putting up a real fight? Or messing with my head?”
“Forgive me my trust issues,” he says, reaching for a sheath at his side. He undoes a buttoned loop of fabric and pulls out a stainless steel knife with an odd notch near its tip and a small metal button where the blade joins the handle. “This is a WASP knife,” he says, holding it up so I can see it clearly. “Stab, press, and it shoots a burst of freezing, compressed air into the wound. Expands to the size of a basketball inside of you. Divers carry these to defend against sharks. You try something, I will use it on you.”
I pause, staring at him. “Call that flirting?” I say after a moment.
“Hey!” he says, pricking me lightly in one shoulder with the knife. “Pay attention! That’s a dead Finemdi agent over there. So he has a piece of the God Ahriman in his pocket. You remember what that does, don’t you? In a few seconds, it is going to figure out its friend is gone and teleport the body home. Once it arrives, they’re going to ID it, look up its owner’s location, and come hunting for the goddess he was supposed to check on.” He leans closer. “That’s you.”
I glare at him. “I followed, thank you.”
He favors me with that awful, smug grin of his. Gods, I did not miss it. “Now you can either play nice with me, or I use this and maybe you’ll have half a torso to work with when their assault teams show up.” He pauses. “Thoughts?”
“What do you want?” I snap.
He takes a deep breath, looking around. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
“Really? You tracked me down and turned me into a colander for a chat?”
“Tracked—? Oh, that’s rich!” he barks, eyes alight. “I’ve been watching you since you landed here. The first time.”
“What?”
“Don’t use magic at airports,” he says, keeping an eye on my re-forming wound. “Finemdi has sensors installed at most of them. I just swung by Orlando International every other day to check on the results, then wiped the logs after I found you.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say, wincing as a few ribs shuffle into place. “So you’ve been playing private eye the whole adventure?”
He shrugs. “Easier than ever these days. Most of the time, all I had to do was monitor the bugs in your suites. Directional mics picked up the slack.”
“You’ve been listening to us? All these months?”
He gives me a pitying look. “Who do you think leaked the Hawaiians?”
“You—?”
“Oh, save it,” he scoffs. “Capricious nature spirits surrounded by theme parks full of tourists? It would’ve been irresponsible not to report them. Only reason it took so long is I had to make sure I couldn’t be traced for it.”
“So why not narc on me while you were at it?”
That gets me an incredulous smirk. “Because they wouldn’t consider you a threat, and the same nonsense that ended with Impulse at the bottom of a lava lake might happen all over again.”
“So you figured I’d cross paths with Finemdi eventually, and all it would take to ratchet up their response was your sacrificial lamb over there?” I ask. “Cold, Garen.”
“Sacrifice,” he repeats, and his face flickers with a touch of regret. “Sort of assumed when gods get involved, isn’t it?”
“Hey, he is all on you, buddy.”
“I suppose.” He shrugs. “Better one now than hundreds more when you pull your ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ cutie act,” he says with no shortage of bitterness.
“Sweet excuse. Presto, you’re a saint.”
He glares at me.
“Well, what did you expect?” I snap. “Actually, what do you want, Garen?”
“Just this,” he says, holding out a hand to indicate me and Sebastian. “See, I can’t kill or capture a god on my own, but Finemdi can, and since I’m pretty high on their target list”—he flicks me again, and it’s a lot harder this time—“that meant playing the long game.”
“Got a point? I have places to be.”
“And here I thought you liked to banter,” he says, feigning a hurt expression. Then his features harden. “You destroyed Impulse Station, killed hundreds, and framed me for it. My mother died because of you.”
“Seemed like her choice to me,” I say.
He brings the tip of the knife closer. “I could have saved her. You took that from me. Forget the job, the people, even the fact that my friends are trying to kill me; I’m not one for regrets. But my mother? You—you arrogant, heartless—”
“I gave her a choice!” I spit back. “All those years, did she ever ask to be saved? Did she? When I talked to her, do you know what she made me promise her?”
“I don’t care!” he yells. “You found a soul trapped in hell and gave it a way out. What did you think would happen? She needed time, needed hope, and you—”
“Two things,” I say, ignoring him. “End her suffering, and spare you. I managed both. Your mother’s last requests, and look where it got me.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes, let’s all shed a tear for the sad little star.” Then he pauses for a moment, thinking. A few awkward seconds pass before he shakes his head. “But fine. In gratitude for ‘sparing’ me, and in the spirit of sportsmanship, a peace offering: one head start.”
“Sorry?”
“They’re coming, and there’s enough of your blood here for them to track you for hours. I can either leave you in chunks, or let you make a run for it. Another glorious ‘choice,’ if you will.”
“So generous.” I sigh. “Yes, I’ll take it.”
“Great. Have fun with them.”
“Can’t wait!” I snap, then lever myself into a sitting position with a groan. He sways back but keeps a firm grip on the blade. “So what, you just going to walk away?” I ask. “Not even a little gloat before you go?”
He blinks at that. “I don’t know what that would get me. This isn’t me winning, Freya—this is just making sure you don’t, either.”
“Yeah, it’s a real mystery, you not having any friends.” I gesture at the knife in his hands. “You done trying to scare me?”
That gets me a long stare.
A few seconds pass, then he stands up and steps away, sheathing the weapon. I push myself to my feet, catch my balance, and look down to assess the situation. “Couldn’t have picked a T-shirt night?” I mutter, dismayed at the ruin of my designer wardrobe.
What’s left of my dress belongs in a war museum. Everything else, including my bag, is coated with a liberal dose of blood, and just about the only part of me that isn’t wrecked is the ragged circle of clean skin on my chest.
I point at the mess. “If you didn’t like the outfit, you could have just said so.”
He snorts. “You’ve got about ten minutes before they’re all over you,” he says, stepping away. “Happy trails, Freya. It’s probably too much to hope they’ll decide to kill you, but I’ll settle for a prison sentence.”
“Thanks for the date, Garen,” I say, flipping him off. “You’re a great guy and all, but I think we should see other people.”
“You and me both, sweetheart,” he says, backing away into the night.
His footsteps crunch on the gravel again, and then he’s gone, leaving me with Sebastian’s corpse and a mountain of worry. Damn that man. He’s making a habit of destroying my false lives, and I’m starting to suspect he might be smarter than me, too. I glance back at what’s left of Sebastian. Well, maybe not entirely smarter.
I crouch beside the dead agent and begin searching him. Rolling back his sleeves reveals armbands similar to the ones Garen used to shoot me through a steakhouse, near the start of all this. There’s a bit of deflated silk in one pocket that can only be where he was keeping his chunk of Ahriman, and some dangerous-looking trinkets in the others. A concealed carry holster provides me with
a large revolver loaded with a selection of hollow-point bullets covered in runes. Cool. An ammo belt tucked underneath his vest yields more of the strange ammunition, as well. There’s also a cell phone, which I leave, a wallet with nothing of interest save a few crisp twenties and a gift card to Cold Stone Creamery, which I steal, and a set of car keys. I take those as well, figuring I want to be in control if Finemdi gets to me on the road, rather than trapped in some poor guy’s cab.
I find the real prize near the end. Concealed in a hidden pocket on the inside lining of his jacket is a familiar-looking syringe filled with a milky white fluid: halāhala. The good stuff, straight from whatever Shiva replacement they’ve managed to concoct (I’ve done my research; there’s no way they have the genuine article, not when you’re talking about a god that powerful and widely worshipped—not yet, at least). I still haven’t a clue how I’m going to get close enough to Ares to use it, but at least this is one piece of the plan checked off.
I strap on the holster and ammo belt, shove the syringe and as many of his mystic doodads as I can into my bag, then put on the bracers. It’s dangerous, wearing strange artifacts like these, but I can’t fit anything else into my bag, and I’m not leaving the things. Once I’m ready, I straighten up, kick off my heels, and head back in the direction of Boulevard3, clicking Sebastian’s key fob and following the chirps until I reach his ride.
It’s an enormous black SUV, one of those things that screams “visiting dignitary,” or perhaps “overcompensating.” I unlock the doors, haul open the driver’s side, and throw myself in. The car starts with a satisfying roar, and I gun it onto the streets, dialing Nathan’s cell as I swerve around early-morning traffic.
He picks up on the fourth ring. “Whazzit?” he murmurs, clearly not quite awake.