As Columbia worked her way toward the glowing emergency exit sign, there was a sudden splash somewhere to her right. She cautiously edged toward the ocean tank and peered down into the water.
It was just a giant tortoise that had breached the surface. The 800-pound behemoth swam a slow lap around the elaborate reef at the tank’s center. “Your fable is all bullshit,” she called out to the tortoise. “Slow and steady never won any—”
Cairn charged out of the darkness. She’d stripped off her combat boots and Columbia didn’t hear the wet footsteps racing toward her until it was too late. With a murderous growl, Cairn blindsided her opponent with a savage tackle around her torso. The air exploded out of Columbia’s lungs as the girl’s shoulder connected with her tender ribcage.
The two of them struck the railing and momentum sent them both over the edge, into the tank.
As they plunged beneath the surface, the world muted around them—no sirens, no helicopter, just the deceiving serenity of water rushing past their ears. Cairn’s elbow slammed into one of the jagged tendrils of coral, but she maintained her grip on Columbia, whose heavy armor sent them sinking like a stone. They spiraled down through a colorful school of damselfish, and an octopus jetted out of their way. All the while, Columbia attempted to knee and kick her way free, but the water slowed her blows, rendering them ineffective.
By the time they struck the sandy bottom of the tank, Cairn’s lungs burned for air—but if she was asphyxiating, Columbia must be as well. And in that moment, she decided that if she had to drown to ensure that the vengeful goddess never left this tank, she would do it, as long as it meant no one else had to lose a loved one to this murderess, this orchestrator of sorrows.
Though Columbia’s arms were pinned, she surprised Cairn with a sudden headbutt, smashing her helmet into Cairn’s jaw. The impact sent a shockwave through her brain, and dark spots erupted in her vision. While she was disoriented, she felt Columbia break free of her hold and wriggle away.
When Cairn’s vision cleared, she found Columbia climbing hand over hand up the reef, ascending toward the air two stories above.
But while Columbia’s armor left her too heavy to swim, Vulcan had designed Sedna’s lightweight enough to be agile even in water. Cairn kicked off the bottom and swam vertically, closing the distance between them in seconds. She fastened a hand on the exposed scruff of Columbia’s armor, and with a savage pull, she wrenched the goddess’s fingers from the reef.
When they sank back to the bottom this time, Cairn knelt over Columbia, hands fastened around her throat. Columbia frantically tried to claw her way free, gauntlets pounding at Cairn’s gloved hands. From here on out, it would be a deadly game of chicken to see who opened their mouth first and let the water rush in.
But then Columbia’s eyes narrowed in determination. Her body trembled with exertion, not physically, but mentally. Through her oxygen-starved brain, Cairn realized what she was witnessing:
Columbia was attempting to override the serum in her veins, to teleport away.
The goddess’s face turned bright red as the circulation rushed to her head. Vessels burst in her eyes, and the vein at her temple throbbed. Cairn watched hopelessly as Columbia’s efforts began to work—black inky tendrils curled out from between the armor plates. Columbia’s pupils blazed with victory.
Then Columbia’s eyes bulged. Blood started to ooze from her nostrils, from her ears, from the gaps in her armor, as the serum took control once more, interrupting her mid-teleportation. Her body lingered in limbo, half of it lodged in the present, half grasping for safe haven somewhere else. Dark red leeched into the obsidian corona that had formed around her.
Columbia opened her mouth in a watery scream just a moment before her entire body exploded into a spectacular orb of blood, flesh, and bone.
Cairn covered her face as the crimson ink surged around her, the stain of the woman who had slain her mother. As the blood diffused, she watched as the helmet that had blown off slowly drifted to the bottom of the tank, the remains of a ravaged skull and broken spinal cord still lodged inside.
The burning sensation in Cairn’s lungs intensified and she kicked off the tank floor. When she breached the surface, she savored her first breath in a safer, better world.
Outside the tank, one of the cameras lay on its side, recording light still glowing red. Its unblinking gaze watched as the dark costumed figure ascended through the scarlet haze.
Squad Goals
Cairn had assumed a world without Columbia would be a better place.
But in a lot of ways, it got a whole lot worse.
After Ra’s rampage through the Seaport, people had already been on edge, increasingly suspicious of the powerful reincarnated beings that walked among them. During Columbia’s fleeting moment in the spotlight, many of them had at least seen the opposite side, that maybe some gods desired to use their powers to protect the lives of others.
All that goodwill evaporated the moment Columbia was exposed as a fraud on live national television. The video of her meltdown during Quinn’s interview, and her spectacular, bloody death that followed, had gone viral around the world. Could any god be trusted now?
With the senatorial seat vacant yet again, the Massachusetts governor had been quick to appoint a local politician whose fiery anti-gods rhetoric had rapidly amassed him a loyal following. “I worship only one divine power,” Senator Sinclair proclaimed in front of one of his rallies, “and he doesn’t massacre innocents in the streets. The era of false idols ends today!”
One mystery remained: the identity of the dark-suited figure who’d somehow defeated Columbia. The sound had cut out during the interview footage, but a single camera had captured video of the dramatic, fatal encounter in the ocean tank, and the costumed victor who’d survived. Conspiracy theorists across the internet had a field day meticulously analyzing the grainy footage and had tried to bestow the vigilante with any fish-inspired name they could dream up, from “Amberjack” to “the Man’o’war.”
“Don’t they mean Woman’o’war?” Vulcan countered as the headline flashed across the television screen. It was two nights before Christmas, and they had just finished decorating a small spruce tree in the Delacroix family’s library. Now Vulcan was perched on a stepladder, stringing lights along the bookshelves. It was a little late to get in the holiday spirit, but given everything that had gone down in the last month, they needed a festive dose of comfort.
“I guess it could be worse.” Cairn pinned another stocking over the fireplace. “They could have called me Cuddlefish.”
“Or Remora,” Delphine suggested from the doorway. “Because you’re a stage-five clinger.”
Both Cairn and Vulcan turned. Even Squall, who had been rolling around in a box of tinsel, poked his head out at the sound of Delphine's voice.
It was the first time Delphine had left the confines of her bedroom since they had transported her from the cabin back to the Delacroix residence. As she recovered from the flu-like symptoms of withdrawing from the Tacitus serum, Cairn had finally explained everything to her—the island, her godhood, the hard choices her mother had made, and the near-catastrophic events at the Coconut Grove. Cairn had even left the journal with Delphine, hoping the opportunity to hold onto something tangible about her past would make it all more real for her.
In the days that followed, Delphine remained uncharacteristically silent, afraid to use her own voice, as though a single spoken word might call down another airplane from the sky. She’d eventually written “I need space” on a notepad and handed it to Cairn.
Cairn couldn’t blame her—the tectonic plates of her life, her very identity, had shifted dramatically in the blink of an eye. Still, it pained her to see Delphine so clearly suffering, physically and emotionally, and know that there was little she could do to comfort her.
Now, relief washed over Cairn to see her girlfriend starting to look like her old self again. “Making highbrow fish jokes—you must be feeling b
etter."
Delphine cleared her throat. “I just couldn’t stand another minute staring at the crack in the ceiling, contemplating my own mortality.” She cringed. “Or lack thereof.”
Cairn crossed the room. She took Delphine’s hands and squeezed them. “You’re still the same old you. Just with a cooler origin story.”
Delphine made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She wiped away a tear. “Guess I’ll just be a little more careful when I sing along to carols this year.”
That night, Vulcan cooked them a delectable three-course meal—apparently, his mastery of all things heat-related also made him quite the chef. The three of them sat down for dinner at the Delacroix’s long dining room table. Her parents had purchased it for entertaining, but tonight, it just seemed to highlight everyone who was missing.
Cairn filled up a champagne flute at the empty seats, one for each person who couldn’t be with them. Themis. Her mother. Her father, whose field excursion wouldn’t conclude until the new year.
When she filled up a seventh place setting, Vulcan asked, “Any word from him yet?”
Cairn shook her head. She couldn’t place why Nook’s absence cut her so deeply. The detective was as surly as they came, and at times downright mean. But before she’d betrayed him, he’d carved out a bear-sized place for himself in her heart. He was like a grumpy but lovable uncle, who had somehow made the void left by her mother just a little more tolerable.
The night of Columbia’s death, Vulcan had released Nook from his temporary prison in Sedna’s ice lair before Cairn could get home, and it was just as well. Although her plan had succeeded, she imagined the polar bear god had nothing good to say to her for tricking him into a cage.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Cairn drove an hour west to the Wayward Squirrel. She immediately recognized the Challenger in the dirt parking lot.
The bar was as dingy as ever, though the owner had at least gone to the trouble of adding some holiday decorations—a few strands of multicolored lights draped over the liquor bottles and a poster of a swimsuit model wearing a red, fur-lined bikini. Patsy Cline’s rendition of “Blue Christmas” piped from the jukebox in the corner.
Cairn found Nook on the same barstool where he’d been sitting the day Dr. Sibelius died. “You sure are a creature of habit,” she said as she slipped into the seat next to him. “Honestly though, there are about ten thousand bars in Massachusetts and this is the one where you’ve chosen to attain regular status?”
Nook took a long drag from his beer bottle, killing what remained. His eyes never left the football game. “You’ve got some nerve.”
Cairn lowered her head, contrite. “I know. I’ve done a lot of shady things in my life—ninety percent of them in the last three months alone—but double-crossing you was one of the hardest. But try to put yourself in my shoes. Imagine you’d tracked down your daughter’s killer, only to be sidelined at the last minute while someone else confronted her.”
“Don’t bring Elisa into this,” he snapped.
She slapped a fiver on the bar and gestured for the bartender to replenish Nook’s empty beer. Maybe he’d be more susceptible to forgiveness after a few more drinks. “After my mom died, I deferred my college admission for a year, which means I have eight months to kill. And I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want to use that time: to make the world a better place. Things are rough out there right now, and the work my mother was doing is more important than ever. I want to do my part to reach out to gods who are feeling alone—and to stop those who would use their powers for harm.” She took a deep breath to prepare for her pitch. “Vulcan and I are starting a new venture: an agency of sorts. We want you to join us. Need you to join us. Your skills could make a real difference.”
After a long pause, Nook said, “In my line of work, when you’re in the crosshairs, having a partner you trust to watch your back can mean the difference between life and death.” She recognized the hurt in his eyes. “I can’t trust you, Cairn. You’ve got a great heart, just like your mom. But you’re selfish and brash, a lone wolf when you need to be a team player. So while part of me couldn’t bear to see any harm come to you, and while I know you’re destined to do great things as long as you don’t get yourself killed in the process, I just can’t be a part of this enterprise you’ve cooked up, no matter how noble your intentions might be. I’m sorry.”
It stung, but it had been the response Cairn had anticipated. “You’re not wrong,” she conceded. “But if you give this partnership a second chance, I promise I’ll spend the rest of it earning back your trust. All I ask is that you sleep on it. Even if we can’t ultimately be colleagues, I hope we can still be friends. What is it you said to me that very first day in your car? Boston isn’t exactly thriving with Inuit expatriates, so we have to stick together.”
This at least produced a chuckle from Nook. “Yeah, stick together—like a tongue to an icicle. You know, your mother was always throwing things I said back in my face, verbatim, sometimes a decade later. Maybe you should consider a career in journalism instead.”
“Like you, I guess I’m looking for something a little more hands-on,” Cairn said. “Or paws-on, if need be. Think about what I said.” With that, she stood up and made her way toward the exit.
Cairn was pulling on her peacoat when Nook called after her, “Hey, kid?”
She turned expectantly.
Nook offered her a rare smile. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Nook.” She nodded to the barstool next to him. “I’m sorry there’s no gift receipt for that.”
Only then did Nook notice the foil-wrapped box she’d left behind, a sparkly tag with his name dangling from it. When he looked back up to thank her, the door to the Wayward Squirrel was flapping closed.
Nook thought about holding onto the gift until Christmas morning, but overcome with curiosity, he tugged at the silver ribbon wrapped around it.
He first saw the hand-scrawled note inside:
“Because justice comes in many shapes and sizes …”
Beneath it, he found a strange piece of clothing. Under the jaundiced light of the bar, it shimmered iridescent. He found what seemed to be a sleeve and plucked at the fabric.
It stretched, and stretched, and stretched some more, impossibly, as if to accommodate someone—something—much larger.
And on the breast of the shirt, he saw the jagged silhouette of a bear skull, teeth bared and poised to strike.
The note had fallen to the floor, and when he picked it up, he realized there was more written on the back:
“… and because nobody wants to see you naked.”
That night, after Vulcan had retired early to bed, Cairn and Delphine bundled up in winter clothes and dragged a blanket out onto the roof. This was a Christmas Eve tradition that dated back to grade school—while her parents thought they were asleep, they would slip out through Cairn’s window and watch the skies for the meteoric streak of Santa’s sleigh.
While they had long ago suspended the search for airborne reindeer, they still came out here every year to enjoy the neighborhood’s holiday decorations and the trail of glowing luminarias that lined the curbs.
Tonight, they huddled together for warmth and drank spiced eggnog as a light snow blanketed the street below. Since Delphine had finally emerged from her room, Cairn had been unsettled by how aloof she seemed. Though Ahna had predicted that the ordeal of revealing Delphine’s true identity would bring them closer together, a rift had grown between them instead, getting wider with every minute of awkward silence.
But now, as Delphine tightened her arm around Cairn’s waist, that chasm seemed to be shrinking and Cairn finally experienced a flicker of hope that maybe they’d get back to where they once were, to restore all the romantic progress they’d made leading up to that night atop the Coconut Grove.
A group of carolers stopped in front of the house and began to sing “Silent Night.” For the first time in a week, Delphine s
miled as the choir of children and adults serenaded them in perfect harmony.
When they got to the final verse, Delphine worked up the courage to join in, quietly at first, then louder. She closed her eyes as she sang along, so she didn’t initially see what Cairn saw.
The families slowly stopped singing, voices trailing off.
Their blank, hypnotized stares all fixed on Delphine as she lulled them into a trance.
“Sleep in heavenly peace,” Delphine sang. “Sleep in—”
Cairn clamped a hand over Delphine’s mouth.
Because in unison, the carolers had all crumpled unconscious to the snow.
Delphine’s eyes fluttered opened and she drew in a sharp gasp. She exchanged a panicked look with Cairn, and the two of them scrambled down the shingles to help the twelve people now splayed out in the snow.
But when they reached the gutter, the carolers began to stir. Cairn held out a hand to tentatively stop Delphine.
One by one, the singers sat up in the snow, dazed. Somehow through their confusion, they helped each other back to their feet and shook it off.
Eventually, the group pulled themselves together and wandered off back to their homes. There would be no more caroling tonight.
Cairn breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone would be okay.
But the damage was done. When she turned back to Delphine, she was gazing off into the sky. In a quiet, trembling voice she whispered the final lyrics to the song:
“… Sleep in heavenly peace.”
When Cairn woke on Christmas morning, she discovered the other side of her bed empty—no Squall, no Delphine. At first, she thought maybe she’d slept in, and that the group was downstairs, waiting for her to come open presents.
This Eternity of Masks and Shadows Page 28