Slay

by Matthew Laurence

  “No problem,” Nathan says, smiling. “I’ll just show a little leg.”

  “Depending on the god, that might work,” she replies with a wink. “If what Samantha said is true, this place is going to be gigantic—take your time, try to find a map, and act like you belong. Let’s agree to meet back here in … shoot, anyone have a watch?”

  Nathan and Sekhmet pull out their phones. “Seriously? Nothing else?” Freya says with a sigh. “Dammit, I lost my Mim. Okay, what time is it now?”

  Nathan glances at his gadget. “It’s … aw, man. Dead,” he says, fiddling with the blank display. “Zeus can suck it.” He looks at Sekhmet, who shakes her head. “Well, you woke us around five on the West Coast, so if we’re in New York now, I’m guessing it’s sometime after eight in the morning.”

  “All right, let’s all try to find a clock or whatever while we’re out, then meet back here after lunch. One to two in the afternoon sound good? If someone misses that window, whoever’s here should wait another hour, then start looking.”

  “Lunch? You’re actually going to stop for a meal?” Nathan asks.

  “Are you kidding?” she replies, and to Nathan, she looks like she might have already started to drool. “I’m going for breakfast, too. It’ll be a great way to mingle and pick up details about the place. Might even be able to find some allies here!”

  Nathan smirks at that. “And the fact that Impulse’s meals were incredible has nothing to do with this?”

  She pauses, then holds up her fingers in a pinch as if to say, “Maybe a tiny bit.”

  “Gods,” Nathan says, amused. It was a good thing, really, to be around friends he could joke with even here, in the belly of the beast. “Fine. Fiveish hours to explore and get back. Anything else?”

  “Stay safe; don’t trust anything?” Freya says.

  “Words to live by,” Sekhmet says, shouldering her bag and straightening herself.

  Freya looks down at her own accessory with a scowl. “Somehow I doubt blood spatters are in season here,” she says to herself. She fishes out her tuning fork and straps it onto the holster under her dress, then tosses the ruined bag behind a console.

  “Good luck, guys,” Freya says once she’s done, sounding a little nervous. “I’ll head out first. Wait a few minutes, then follow?”

  Nathan and Sekhmet nod. Freya sighs, then turns to leave, and Nathan’s heart jumps in his chest at the thought of her heading into whatever hell awaited.

  “Hey, Sara?” he says before she can go farther. “Try not to get into trouble, all right?”

  She turns back with a questioning smile.

  “You’ve got a lousy track record, is all,” he adds, fidgeting.

  “You’re not the boss of me,” she replies, grinning.

  “I just don’t want to have to find another god to follow,” he says with a halfhearted laugh, trying to stay positive. “Such a hassle.”

  “Well, as a favor to you, then,” she says, walking back to give him a hug. “You keep yourself in one piece, too, all right?” she says over his shoulder. “Finding a good high priest isn’t much easier.”

  “I guess,” Nathan says as they part, adding a lighthearted touch of sarcasm to mask his mounting worry.

  Freya winks at him, then looks to Sekhmet. “I don’t have to tell you how much I’d miss you, do I?”

  “No,” Sekhmet answers with a laugh. Then she holds out her arms. “But such sentiments … never hurt.”

  Freya gives her a hug, too, tight and fierce, then bobs her head as they part. “Cheer up, guys,” she says. “New York pizza is waiting for us.”

  Nathan’s stomach grumbles at the thought. “Finally, a goal worth the trouble,” he says.

  She laughs with him, an awkward chuckle shared on the precipice of disaster, it seems to Nathan. They stand there for a moment, both seeming equally displeased with the idea of facing what lies beyond. At last, Freya shakes her head and moves for the door. She takes a deep breath when she reaches it, pausing with her hand on the knob.

  “What joys do you hide?” she mutters at it.

  Part of Nathan hopes she’ll decide to go back for more jokes and good-byes, but he knows that would just be delaying the inevitable.

  A moment later, Freya squares her shoulders, seeming to reach the same conclusion, and opens the door. A long, familiar-looking hallway lies beyond, its sealed concrete floor coated in ribbons of color, intended to direct maintenance staff. Nathan can make out another nondescript door opposite theirs, incomprehensible numbers etched into the wall beside it.

  His god turns back for one more look, then slips into the depths of Meridian One.

  Nathan and Sekhmet both let out little breaths they’d been holding as the door snaps shut behind her. “Few more minutes, then follow?” he asks in an uneven tone.

  “Indeed,” she says. There’s a pause. “Are you afraid, my love?” she asks after a moment, wide eyes shining in the dull light.

  He snorts. “I’d be an idiot not to be.”

  She nods at that. “Then we are both wise.”

  “I really—” he begins, then cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Really hope we’ll be okay, Sekhmet,” he finishes in a much smaller voice.

  She remains quiet, looking at him, before her expression crumples. She wraps her arms around him and holds him close. “As do I,” she says, soft and tense.

  He hugs her just as fiercely. “Just stick with me, all right?” he says, still holding her.

  She pulls back and looks at him, features laced with concern, and he manages a smile. With mock gravity, he says, “Long as we’re together, the world can’t touch us.”

  That gets him a touch of laughter. “And what is the source of such confidence?” she asks.

  His smile widens. “Because if anyone hurt you, I’d move heaven and earth to get them, and I’m betting you’re no different.”

  “Oh, Nathan,” she says with a dark chuckle, hugging him again. “I … cannot say.”

  He blinks at that, confused.

  “If you are to come to harm,” she says, something dire in her voice, “I honestly do not know what I will do.”

  Nathan stares at her, at the odd mix of conviction and uncertainty on her face, and smiles again. “Then let’s make sure we never find out,” he says, and kisses her.

  19

  FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES

  FREYA

  It’s even worse than I remember.

  This place is a sprawling nightmare of tunnels and enchantments, a ludicrous hive of the magical, malicious, and mundane. I commit the name tag of our maintenance room to memory and do my best to fix its location in my head as I start picking my way through the halls, but part of me is deeply worried I’ll never find it again. I have a few spells that can help, preset triggers to find lost items and people, but I’d rather save those contingencies for something more important than my own personal GodNav system.

  My heart skips a beat when I stumble across an elevator. At last, a way to populated floors and, just maybe, someone who knows their way around this maze. I press the call button, idly clean my nails while I wait for the car to arrive, then board a few seconds later. My jaw drops when I see the selection of floors: Counting basements, this building has more than eighty levels, putting it on even footing with some of the tallest buildings in the world. Considering the sheer size of each of those floors, it may beat them all in terms of footprint.

  If they weren’t cheating, that is. Wherever Meridian One is located, I’m willing to bet it looks nothing like its true self on the outside. Finemdi seems to adore space-warping magic, and if Impulse Station was anything to go by, this place could very well be hidden in a utility shed behind some bushes in Central Park.

  I review my options with a sour look, then sigh and press the button for Level 69. Immaturity, be my guide. The elevator fires off with a smooth hiss, reaching my juvenile choice in less than a minute. The doors open on what’s clearly some sort of corporate office spac
e. Thick carpeting compresses underfoot as I take a wary tour of extremely stylish business spaces that would fit right in alongside the high-tech grandeur of the Creative Artists Agency. I pause at the thought, realizing that a few short, carnage-filled hours ago, I was happily playing the starlet on the dance floor.

  This is not how I saw the rest of that night going.

  I can’t figure out exactly what the purpose of this floor is, but going by door labels, stray documents, and the occasional staffer, I’m guessing it’s some sort of accounting department. Oh, glee.

  I’m trudging through a recreational space filled with televisions, expensive-looking chairs, and enormous windows that look out on the New York skyline when someone finally takes notice of me. It’s a young woman in conservative business dress who catches my eye as I maneuver around a table with built-in gaming consoles and headsets. Her eyes grow wide when she spots me, then dart to either side as if she’s trying to figure out how to make herself scarce.

  “G-good morning, Mistress Freya!” she stammers as she draws near, clearly frightened.

  “Morning!” I say in a bright voice, continuing past.

  It’s only after I’ve gone five steps that I stop and realize what’s happened. I make a slow turn, confused, and catch a glimpse of the intern as she hurries away at a power walk that’s just shy of a run. Her shoulders are hunched and she’s moving like there’s a tiger stalking her from behind one of the nearby laptop nooks. Then she sneaks a quick look over her shoulder, sees me watching her, and literally squeaks and picks up the pace. She’s gone in a few seconds, anxiety streaming in her wake.

  “What the hell?” I say to the empty air.

  She recognized me. How is that even possible?

  That girl knew my name, felt familiar enough that she had to say something … and was utterly terrified of the consequences of doing so. I just got here, didn’t I? How could she possibly have a clue who I was? And know enough to have that sort of reaction?

  This makes no sense. Even if she knew me and what I did at Impulse Station, she should be setting off alarms and releasing the hounds, not acting like she’s just passed the schoolyard bully in the hallway. I-I’m at a total loss. What’s going on here?

  I stand there nearly a minute, trying to puzzle out an answer and waiting to see if she’ll be back with the Jerk Squad, but neither makes an appearance. No alarms, nothing. I shake my head, deeply troubled, and continue my search. Over the next half hour, as the office begins to fill with early-morning workers, I have another dozen encounters that all go pretty much the same way. These people clearly know me, and their general response always seems to boil down to, “Oh god oh god please don’t hurt me I’m too young to die,” before they make their escape.

  Finally, I manage to corner a clerk in a break room as he waits for a pot of coffee. He’s in his mid-twenties, probably fresh out of college or grad school, with black hair and sleepy-looking eyes. The way he’s watching the coffeepot fill gives me the impression that this is his favorite part of the morning. “Hi there!” I say, planting myself in the doorway.

  He spins, a smile on his face. Then his eyes lock on me, and the joy curdles on his lips as he turns an ashen shade of despair. “Mistress Freya,” he whispers. “H-how can I—That is, if you would need help, is there, uh, I just—”

  Okay, this is ridiculous. I blast his mind with affection, smashing aside the terror and dismay like cobwebs before a fire hose, and close the distance between us. “There, not so scary now, am I?” I say as I walk up.

  “What? Oh, ha, no, no—I don’t know what I was thinking, sorry. Um, coffee?” he says, holding up his mug with sheepish, puppy dog affection. I notice it reads FINEMDI EUROPEAN FINANCES in block letters above the company logo, which is drawn in red and green and covered in little ornaments. CHRISTMAS 2016 is written beneath in a holiday-themed font.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “What’s your name?”

  “Clark!” he says brightly. “I—I know we’ve never spoken, but it’s just so good to meet you, Mistress Freya. Would you like to, um, maybe see a movie or something? Get to know each other better?”

  “That would be great, Clark,” I say, wondering if I’ve overdone it on the love. “Next week? Until then, can you tell me how you know me?”

  “Oh, sure,” he says, clearly tickled by the idea of our upcoming date. “You started working on the executive level a few months ago as HR coordinator and head assistant to the chairman.” He leans in, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “They say you’ve increased productivity in the business office and reduced tardiness by, like, a ridiculous amount, but you’re”—he fidgets, like this is something he wishes he didn’t have to say—“very mean. ‘Force of nature’ mean. Most everyone tries to stay out of your way. They’ve sent your picture around in e-mail chains and everything. ‘Don’t piss her off!’ and all that.”

  He frowns. “But you seem really cool!” he finishes in a bright voice.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I mutter, mind whirling. I work here? But—but I can’t work here! I have very distinct memories of never being here. Unless … did they make a Freya of their own? I mean, I know Finemdi has the hideous power to forge its own deities, but why in the world would they want me? And how would they even do it? Samantha said you need all kinds of info to make it stick! And why is this me apparently a colossal bitch? I’m nice! It’s my thing!

  “Listen, Clark, this is really important,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulders and looking him the eyes. “I need to know where you’d go to look up a god’s records. Whatever Finemdi knows about them.”

  “Well, it’s all digital,” he says, fiddling with the milk and sugar. “Not like there’s some special server room or, y’know, file cabinet. Use the right credentials and any computer in the building will get you what you need.”

  “Do you have those credentials?” I ask, feeling exasperated.

  “Course. Have to be able to check on gods for filing, see who contributes what, how important they are for each assigned team so we can help payroll calculate bonuses, that sort of thing.” He takes a sip and closes his eyes in satisfaction.

  “And can you edit those records?”

  “Absolutely,” he says, stirring in more sugar. “We have to fill in fiscal impacts, remember? Some gods contribute more than others, but we track everyone. Like, Hestia basically gets a fully dedicated analyst, but the others vary depending on time of year, what ops they’re running, the—”

  “Great! Fine!” I say. “Can you help me edit my file? I’m in a hurry, and this can’t wait.”

  “Sure! Here, follow me,” he says, and sets off at a brisk pace.

  I follow him a few doors down to a cookie-cutter office with C. HARRISON stenciled on the nameplate. I’ve noticed there are no cubicle farms here—everyone has an office, or at least an open working environment behind closed doors. I guess unlimited space and money means they can do away with some of the sadder business clichés of the twentieth century.

  Clark sits behind his desk and gestures for me to pull up one of the guest chairs set against a wall. I grab one and wheel it over, settling in as he finishes booting up his machine. “Just a quick edit, right?” he says, navigating the desktop.

  “Right,” I say. “Then I’m gonna make your mind overflow and forget we ever did this.”

  “Hmm?” he says as he loads up a website.

  “Nothing.”

  “All right, let’s see,” he says, typing. “F-R-E-Y-A, right? Or is there a J? Oh, there you are. Okay, looks like you have two records: one for a pseudo-Freya and one for the original. Which do you want?”

  I narrow my eyes. I’ll be damned. They did make another me. “Both.”

  “Can do. Original first, then,” he says, clicking on the link. The page loads up with my dossier, including the headshot they took back at Impulse Station. I scan the page, noting they have my old alias and last known addresses as well as my relationship with Nathan, but nothing on Sekhme
t or the Hawaiian sisters, or anything after Orlando. The last place they have for me is the false address I had Nāmaka submit before she flooded their server room, and it looks like she remembered to delete my real apartment details at the time, too. Way to go, Hawaii.

  “And the fake?” I ask.

  He clicks the other page, and my double is suddenly staring back at me. It’s uncanny. The girl shown here is a strange mirror, my physical copy, and yet … the differences are plain. There’s a hardness around her eyes, a cruel hint to her smile, a pinched haughtiness in her cheeks. This god is not your friend.

  Ty kráva. I have an evil twin.

  I scan the page, but there’s a lot to process, and I really should hurry. “Can you print this?”

  “Sure,” he says, sending a command to his team’s printer. “We can pick it up from the printer when we’re done here.”

  “Okay, good. Now go back,” I say. “New search. Find Sara Valen. S-A-R-A … yeah, V-A- There it is.” I point as the auto-complete fills in his search field.

  He opens the link. It’s filed under “Unidentified Gods” with an “Active Operation” marker on it. Someone’s attached one of Sara Valen’s short-haired publicity stills for Switch to the top of the page. The most recent update describes my antics in Los Angeles, the cleanup team, and the heartening news that they lost my trail shortly after an encounter with Izanami, who managed to escape after much death and mayhem. A new agent will be assigned to the case after a briefing scheduled for later today, and they’ve moved back into monitoring mode while they wait for me to reappear. Perfect.

  “Right, this whole file,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Delete everything. The picture, all the stuff about her TV career, known addresses, all of it.”

  He hesitates, fingers poised over the keys. “Really? I mean, look at this op—it just came back. This got edited, like, half an hour ago.”