THAT. IS. IT! Before I can stop myself, I haul back and slap him across the face, sending him reeling against the edge of his desk.
Oh, that felt GOOD, I think, taking in the damage as he staggers upright. It appears months of “offerings” from Nathan and Sekhmet have made me a potent little goddess—the blow was enough to dislocate his jaw, snap his neck, and crush his cheek.
“Did I say you could touch me?” I shout, not caring what might come.
He rolls his shoulders, clicking his spine back together. The wound on his face is already gone, healed with intimidating speed. How powerful is he? I think, eyes widening.
“So delightfully angry,” he says, using his tie to mop up the blood on his jaw. He stuffs it back into his suit and waves a finger. “But I already have a violent consort, I’m afraid.”
“How did you do it, Loki?” I ask. “How’d you fake the end-time and get the Æsir to believe it?”
“Sorry, you already got your secret,” he says, and holds out a hand. “Shall we?”
“B-but—you said I could have—” I stutter, trying not to stare at my necklace.
“Hmm, did I?” he says, stroking his chin. “I’m fairly sure I never said when. Let’s see how things go with Ares, first. Come along.”
He spins and starts heading for his office doors. I’m moving to catch up when he glances over his shoulder, a sly smile on his lips. “Oh, and bring my lunch. If it’s not too much trouble.”
I look at the serving tray, then back at him with a sour expression. “You’re asking me to wait on you? This is just to be a dick, isn’t it?”
“Who said anything about ‘asking’?” he says, smile turning cruel. “And yes.”
I glare at his back as he leaves, knowing this is probably just the tip of the egomaniac iceberg. I’m hardly in a position to protest, however, especially if I want a shot at that necklace, so I sullenly return to his desk, snatch the tray from it, and hurry to catch up. I dash into the outer office just in time to see his form twist and warp. In a handful of steps, his suit blanches and extends, unfolding into a spotless white lab coat. Streaks of gray zip through his hair as it fades and fuzzes, becoming endearingly disheveled before turning pale as bone. Those spiteful, superior features soften and age, giving him a round, cheerful face. He turns to me as the transformation completes, looking for all the world like your classic absentminded professor …
… whom I’ve seen before.
My eyes grow wide as I recognize the mask he’s donned. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out an ID badge, clipping it to his coat with a grin. I don’t even need to read it to know it identifies him as GOODSON, BARNABY. The man I ran into as he was coming out of Corrections, back at Impulse. So that’s how Loki met me. Where he got the idea to create my twin.
“Can’t just go for a stroll in my own skin,” he explains in Barnaby’s kind, distant voice. “Must have a bit of mystery for the rank and file.”
“Careful,” I say, catching up and following him out. “Keep making that face, it’ll get stuck that way.”
“Not a god of comedy, then,” he says with a sigh.
I give him an irritated look, then follow as he heads for the exit. A quick elevator ride takes us to one of the building’s subbasements, even lower than the utilities wing where I arrived. The security here is heavy, an underground fortress stocked with grim guards and menacing weapons, but “Barnaby’s” badge gets us through without incident. We pass through three sets of progressively thicker blast doors, thread around what appears to be a laboratory complex, and enter a sprawling prison.
“Are you holding him here?” I ask, trying not to gawk at the security.
Loki snorts at that. “Of course not. This is where he works.”
“Figures,” I mutter, realizing how well the setting matches what I know of the man.
There’s no whimsy to this place—no spires of rock, ghoulish gargoyles, or other villainous accessories—just sharp, no-nonsense barriers, catwalks, and cells. Sterile efficiency is the order of the day here, leaving no room for escape routes or schemes. I’m guessing they have every air duct sealed, every pipe miniaturized, and every inch watched by cameras and patrolled by guards. Even on the accountants’ floor, there was a touch of humanity, a sense someone had a bit of fun with the design. Here, the message is clear: Abandon hope, ye who enter.
I’m getting an incredibly bad feeling about this. Sure, fine, going after my twin and sneaking into her boss’s office was risky, but this is a brand-new level of doomed. What’s going to happen when we meet up with Ares? How is this going to go any way but poorly? Oh, I’ve really stepped in it now.
Gods and mythical creatures of all shapes and sizes watch us as we pass. A sinuous, ever-moving man with three heads paces one cell, all six eyes burning with flat, reptilian disgust. Another imprisoned god is enormous, yet emaciated and hunched, sitting cross-legged in a freezing, rime-coated suite. The walls around him are covered in crawling Aztec runes and pictograms. He smiles at us with a too-wide mouth, and my breath becomes a chilled fog in the few moments his gaze settles on me.
Others seem less sinister, likely having been locked away for the crime of not following Finemdi. A dark-skinned man reclines in an enormous leather chair, surrounded by fine furnishings, collectibles, and knickknacks. Bone-thin and scarecrowish, he’s dressed in a tuxedo suit and top hat. Glossy sunglasses hide his eyes, his lips wrap around a fine cigar, and he raises a tumbler of clear liquid to toast me as we pass. I notice he returns his attention to an adult magazine as soon as it’s clear we’re not stopping. A little farther on, a bright red girl—
I halt outside her cell, surprised and confused. Loki turns and laughs when he notices who’s captured my attention. Completely naked but for garlands of skulls, bones, and lotus flowers, she’d be utterly gorgeous—if her head weren’t missing. The woman’s neck terminates in a clean stump, blood streaming from it at a startling rate to splash on the cell floor. I notice large metal grills are spaced evenly to drain the mess. Aside from the bloodstains, several packed bookshelves, and a few simple pieces of furniture, the room is bare. Wreathed in unkempt black hair, the girl’s detached head watches us from a nearby end table, her attention momentarily diverted from a book her body holds for her.
“Chhinnamasta,” Loki says, tapping on the glass. “Hindu goddess of self-sacrifice, sexual energy, and restraint. One of the few Indian gods we’ve managed to capture.”
He leans closer. “Not many believers for a bloodthirsty, haunted freak, are there?”
The girl’s body lowers her book, and her head purses its lips. “Life is messy,” she says in crisp, brittle tones. “A panting, hungry search to perpetuate itself. To escape death, we serve it. I offer the truth of this, the sacrifice that is our blood and fluid. Unsurprising few are brave enough to embrace it.”
“I’m more a fan of ‘no strings attached,’” Loki says before resuming his walk. I watch as the girl returns to her reading, then follow him, eyes darting between a seemingly endless parade of sealed gods and muzzled beasts as we continue our tour.
My worries ratchet with every step; I’m going to need help if I want to avoid joining their ranks. As I trail Loki, I start sending symbols and imagery to Nathan, using our bond between god and worshipper to cheat some rather pertinent knowledge into his head. I’ve never sent visions to him—or pretty much anyone in centuries, aside from Harv—but I’ve become rather desperate. Hopefully he’ll get their meaning, and hopefully I haven’t gotten rusty. Communicating actual information is really hard when all you have to work with are vague, myth-approved flashes of prophecy. Stupid visions.
I send him towering mountains carved with the floor number, hedge mazes outlining the security setup, a trail of blood to show the route we’ve taken … everything my high priest might need to reach me. As clearly as I can, I wreath these symbols with the pounding sentiment that things are about to get deadly serious.
A handful of seconds later, I r
eceive a prayer in return: Hang on, Sara; we’re coming, and Samantha’s going to help.
I allow myself a tiny sigh of relief. He got it. Not only that, but he’s bringing exactly who I’d want. With Samantha at their side, my friends should be able to get anywhere, and if she’s coming along, she may be what’s needed to tip the odds. That makes me feel a lot better. I send back a burst of gratitude, then return my attention to the tour.
“So many,” I say, eyes darting from cell to cell.
“Well, this is the scenic route,” Loki says.
“Why do it?” I ask, drawing even with him. “Why start a war on the gods? What do you get out of this?”
“I don’t know,” he says, smiling. “Maybe I should start a YouTube channel.”
“I’m serious.”
“Hi, Serious, I’m Loki.”
I make an exasperated noise, and he laughs. “I didn’t start Finemdi. They’d been going for over a century before I found them.”
Huh. That’s interesting—makes me wonder who did create this place. “And you thought it was a good idea?”
“What, do I look stupid?” he says, feigning insult. “Terrible. Had to be stopped. Most of these idiots”—he gestures at the rows of prisoners—“probably felt the same. Only reason I’m not on that side of the glass with them is because I know you can’t kill ideas.”
He pauses, staring at a stern-looking god. The man has flowing hair of gold and radiates light like a living sun, throwing our shadows behind us as we pass his cell. “But you can poison them,” Loki says as we move on. “And so.”
“You snuck in, put yourself in charge, and didn’t change a thing?” I say, confused. “I mean, what’s the difference?”
“Besides the incredible irony? I don’t want a world without gods, girl—I want a world with one.”
I give him a skeptical look. “You never struck me as a monotheist.”
“Pfft. Religion. Keep it. I have a theory I’m testing.”
“And that is?”
He turns his head, a hint of amber glowing in his eyes. “All you’re getting,” he says, falling silent.
I sigh, looking at the poor pig on the tray in front of me, and feel a bit of empathy for this trapped, roasted creature. That feeling is multiplied as we pass a larger-than-usual cell, this one home to a trio of very familiar goddesses.
My pulse quickens, but I try not to let my stride falter or give away much of a reaction as I take in the new home of Hi‘iaka, Nāmaka, and Pele. Samantha was right: My friends are being held here, and in what appear to be Hawaiian-themed confines. Several lovely pieces of koa wood furniture sit on floors coated in woven mats, and there’s even a fountain made from golden bamboo in one corner. The three nature spirits are all sitting on a couch pointed at the back wall, chatting among themselves. They don’t even look up as we pass, their attention captured by an old episode of Desperate Housewives playing on a large flat-screen TV. As prisons go, it looks surprisingly comfortable.
“—don’t understand what any of them see in Susan,” Nāmaka is saying. “She’s not worth the trouble.”
“You’re such a Bree,” Hi‘iaka says, dismissing her opinion with a snort.
I smile at the banter, hoping it means they’re being treated well, and make note of where they’re located. If I somehow get out of this, I’m beelining it to them. For now, though … my future’s not looking quite so hopeful. At least Loki doesn’t seem interested in chatting further, making the rest of our journey blessedly quiet. A few minutes later, we reach our destination.
My tour guide turns and twitches a hand, gesturing at an upcoming intersection. “Ladies first,” he says. I send Nathan a final vision of where we are, take a deep breath, then turn the corner.
My blood freezes.
Standing in the hall before us, staring at a clipboard and dressed in a US military uniform, is Ares. Even from behind, he radiates violent authority, his pale skin seeming stretched taut with power. His coarse black hair is slicked down with gel, and his posture is utterly straight. A pen twiddles between marble fingertips as he jots notes. He’s facing a cell at the end of the hall, apparently oblivious to our arrival. I feel a trill of adrenaline as I stare at him, the centuries falling away to place me on a green hill in a distant land, watching those twitching hands swing a blade toward my neck. I shudder at the memory, not quite believing this insane scenario is actually real. All these years, and he’s right there.
For his part, Ares seems distracted, attention captured by the notes he’s taking and the contents of the cell before him. It certainly seems important, looming a little larger and brighter than the others near it. A hazy, rippling spike of magic surrounds this chamber, its weaves intense and intricate. There’s a large crystal-studded control panel of sorts set into the wall beside it, and most of those strange energies seem tied to its dials and switches. Beyond the usual sheet of warded acrylic glass, a darkly familiar creature waits.
And waits.
I recognize him almost as quickly as I did Ares, but my association with this deviant is far more recent. Ahriman, the Zoroastrian god of destruction and wrath, stands within the cell, dressed in unkempt rags. His body is rigid and unmoving, frozen mid-tirade, eyes locked on the air directly in front of the control panel. Flecks of spittle surround snarling lips, and curses lie trapped behind clenched teeth. His face is a map of rage and unstoppable hatred, red-tinted eyes burning with promises of extinction.
I take an involuntary step back, remembering the brutal visions the merest piece of him seared into my mind at Inward Care Center. Garen used it as part of his introduction—proof he dealt with gods. I later learned those disgusting trinkets are standard-issue for Finemdi agents, the chunks functioning as a bizarre escape plan, a means to drag their hosts out of danger when mortal threats loom.
Of course, if you’re fast enough, there’s only so much they can do. Just look at Sebastian Gallows.
“Look familiar?” Loki asks, lowering his voice.
How did he—? I’m about to admit the truth of what I’m seeing, of who I am and why I’ve come, when I realize he’s pointing at the tray in my hands.
“Same concept,” he says. “Just costlier. Keeps food and gods fresh!”
Ares stops writing at the words, then continues a few seconds later. He’s clearly aware others are in the hall now, but seems content to ignore the interruption. I choose to focus on Loki’s statement, completely fine with putting off our inevitable introduction for a few more seconds to puzzle out what they’ve done to Ahriman.
It hits me. “He’s stuck in time,” I say.
Loki shakes his head. “No, no, that’s a little unnecessary. He’s just very, very slow. Might manage to spit whatever insult’s on his mind in a few decades.”
“Why not do this with all of them?” I ask.
He turns to stare at me with the piercing slate-gray eyes of a hawk. “It’s expensive. This cell ties up a lot of resources, and when I say ‘a lot,’ that’s like saying ‘it took a lot of bricks to build New York.’”
“If you don’t mind,” Ares says at last, a touch of temper electrifying the words as he lowers his clipboard. “I’m rather—”
He stops as he turns to stare at us both. “Oh. You two,” he says at last, mistaking me for my twin. “Rare to see management descend so far. Why are you here?”
“I’ve brought you a surprise,” Loki says, chuckling as he lets Barnaby’s features melt away.
“And e-mail was unavailable?” Ares says, annoyed. “I’m on a schedule.”
“Ah, of course,” Loki says, nodding at the cell. “How’s it going?”
Ares sighs. “I am attempting to expedite the process. The time lock is effective, but its long-term costs are, as you’re aware, extreme. His demeanor is not helping matters, either. Responses to cajoling and torture are equally poor. He is … obstinate.”
“Aren’t they all.”
Ares clears his throat, clasping his clipboard behind his b
ack and giving Loki a meaningful look. “Ah, yes,” Loki says, rolling his eyes. “Always a hurry. Well, this won’t take long.” He snaps his fingers at me. “Sweetums?”
I sigh, walking up. Here it comes.
“Who do you see, Ares?” Loki asks.
Ares glowers at him. “Your secretary.”
“Correction,” Loki says. “Your secretary.”
“Pardon?” Ares says as my mouth goes dry. Son of a bitch.
“You get a Freya, I get a Freya. Everybody gets a Freya!” Loki says, tossing up his arms before turning to me. “Isn’t that right … Freya?”
“What?” I snap in unison with Ares.
“The wards on my office door,” Loki explains, straightening his suit. “They’re quite picky. So picky, in fact, that if they let you in and you weren’t my new beau, you almost had to be the genuine article. When you couldn’t see me or your necklace, that clinched it.”
Well, that’s just great. “And you’ve been … what? Toying with me since?”
“Pretty much,” Loki says, dusk-red eyes gleaming. He turns back to Ares. “It’s really her, Ares, so whaddya say? Need an assistant?”
My nemesis stares at me, ancient recognition cascading through burning eyes. “Pathetic girl,” he barks with vile mirth. “Miss my shelf?”
And I’m gone. The Valkyrie rips control from me the second she hears those spiteful, grating tones. “Your end is here!” I shout at him, watching as if from a distance as I toss Loki’s lunch tray to the floor with a clatter and stab a finger at Ares’s chest. “The conquest, the bloodshed, the victories…? No more.”
Behind the fury, my heart sinks with the sudden realization that I’ve been manipulated into coming here … by myself. That brief moment when my spell crept through the portal at the Graces’ and I had my choice of Finemdi facilities? Well, Sekhmet was right all along: I didn’t pick this place because Samantha was here—I did it for Ares. The Valkyrie’s hungered for this reunion ever since she learned it might be possible, and with one subconscious push, she got it.
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