The Woken Gods (31 page)

The street ahead begins to clog with more not-a-worry-in-their-head people, meandering toward the revels. I am struck again with envy. I want an empty head and a calm heart. We pause at the place where the street meets another, where we have to split up.

I nod to Bree and Tam. “You guys take care,” I say. “Beware of revelers.”

“Good luck to you,” Tam says.

“
Don’t
break a leg. Or anything else,” Bree says. “We’ll see you soon. Very soon.”

“If not, we’ll have bigger trouble than broken bones,” Justin adds.

He takes off first, his path between buildings obscured. Bree and Tam go in the opposite direction, toward the clamor and chaos of the revels. Once the crowd absorbs them, I take Vidarr’s shoe from my backpack and slip it over my boot. With the night and the buzz of the revels, no one on the street notices when I disappear.

Or when Oz takes my hand, and does the same. His presence helps me feel slightly calmer.

The sense of something stretched out between us from earlier in the backyard lingers.

With the relic, we’re able to approach the Jefferson without having to worry about anyone spotting us. When we reach the fountain, Poseidon ruling over the sidewalk, we meet a line of Society guards on horseback riding toward the Mall. They don’t even blink as we make for the Jefferson’s front entrance. Oz is one of the operatives assigned to a post at the main door. He will be seen, briefly, and take care of the others. Assuming all goes well, Bronson’s orders that no one be let in will be quickly and quietly overthrown.

We’re in a countdown now, hoping that all the pieces will end up where we want them to. But it’s hard to feel confident, given that so far I’ve been a chess piece moved around a board I wasn’t even aware I was on. Legba’s pawn.

Close to the top of the stairs, I release Oz’s hand. He strides out of the shadows and the rest of the way to the top, through the first of the three massive stone arches. A voice greets him. “You’re late, golden boy.”

I wait on the stairs below, unseen, and count.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

At five, Oz ducks out of the shadows and waves for me to come forward.

“That didn’t take long,” I say to him, finding his hand when I reach the top, so he’ll be concealed again.

The two Society guards who were at their posts lay flat against the stone, unconscious. We are banking that the tricksters are inside already. That’s why we left our own arrival to the party so late.

“Training,” Oz says. Then, “After you,” sweeping his free hand to the lone open entrance.

“I don’t suppose I can talk you into going to help Justin and let me handle this part solo,” I say, because it’s worth a shot.

“That’s not what we agreed on,” Oz says. “Get used to the fact that tonight you’ll have whatever you need from me. You won’t have to do this alone.”

“Oz, I don’t know what to say. If this doesn’t go well…”

“Speechless.” Oz teases me. “That means I win. We didn’t factor in a delay, so in we go.”

He’s right. There’s no time for last words. We slip inside the cool, dim building, taking a turn to the left as we already agreed. We intend to approach the Great Hall slowly and from one side, toward the back of it, instead of barreling straight on ahead. While we glimpse shapes and forms within it, I stick with the strategy we planned and don’t look too closely. Even though no one should sense our presence while we’re protected by the relic, caution is the wisest course here. We need to know what we’re walking into.

As we navigate between speckled marble walls, the pinprick electric lights and overhead fixtures wink once and die. “Power outage,” I murmur.

“And there’s the first thing we didn’t plan for,” Oz says.

There’s no natural light coming in at this hour, and so we grope forward in the near dark. When we reach the agreed-upon spot, Oz whirls to face me, planting his feet to stop me from plunging ahead. The backup gaslights kick in, flickering, illuminating the scene in front of us.

“Dad!” I shout without intending to. Good thing the relic stops anyone from hearing me.

When I try to rush forward, Oz steps behind me and holds me lightly in place. “Look first,” he says. “Like we agreed.”

It’s hard to stick with taking things slow and smart given what’s before us. Dad lies prone in the middle of the zodiac, directly over the brass sun. The irony that this
is the door truly hits me. The Society is
supposed
to keep the light burning to hold the dark at bay. That’s why they call themselves the Society of the
Sun
.
But this in front of me? This is pure darkness.

Dad isn’t shackled, but thick, knotted ropes twined over each wrist and ankle bind him. They are secured beneath heavy brick-sized pieces of metal laid on top of the patterned marble. The rope and the metal are most likely relics. He stares up at the ceiling high overhead.

I whisper. “How long do we have?”

Until the clock strikes midnight, I mean. Oz gives the answer I’m afraid of, “Not very.”

At least our concealment seems to be holding. That or the gods are too absorbed in waiting for the big moment to notice.

Bronson stands to one side of Dad, a leather case sitting at his feet that I’m certain contains the Was scepter. He wears his usual suit, slick and relaxed like always. Oz assured me that he wouldn’t risk wearing a protective relic given what he’s told the gods they’re here for. He won’t need one. No doubt they’ll be on board when they discover the truth. It benefits them more than anyone else. I think back to my grandfather’s mad insistence he will fix everything right after, raise the walls and put the gods to sleep, return us to the too-bright past just as it was.

True to what Oz heard, besides Dad and Bronson there are only members of the Tricksters’ Council in attendance. They’d never miss a blood sacrifice – this is probably like the good old eons as far as they’re concerned. I’m thankful Oz forced me to
look
before leaping as I take in the full scene. Even if every move we make goes exactly the way we want (which it won’t), we are fighting fate. I am reminded that these beings are as old as
time itself.

Set, in this up to his canine throat, is front and center, not three feet away from Bronson and Dad. On the other side of the grand space, Hermes leans against a column, as if he’s lazing in his own private Grecian temple. Coyote wears his oversized animal form, sitting on his haunches beside an alcove with a bust of Thomas Jefferson inside. His face contains the same wary intelligence as always. Coyote is no one’s fool. Past him, Tezcatlipoca might be a living mountain resting on marble. And Loki is half-wrapped around a feminine statue, leering at it.

Enki lingers near the entrance, not coming in and making himself at home like the others. He must have arrived right after we did. His horns are the barest inches from the tall arches above him. I’m aware how he hides his full nature, how the abzu could contain all this, plus a dozen copies of it and then some.

But he’s not giving away the unconscious – and frozen by Oz’s stripes – guards outside. Maybe he
will
be on our side. That’s one thing we weren’t able to assume. He let the Society remove Dad from Enki House, and the exact nature and limits of Anzu’s dedication to guarding me remain unclear.

In fact, Anzu not showing up here doesn’t surprise me as much as the fact there’s no sign of Legba. He’s not going to skip the show he’s taken such care to orchestrate. He must be who the rest are waiting for, since no one else but Set and Bronson know what a strict schedule they have to stick to.

The frenetic pitch of the revels in the distance rises in volume.
Tick, tick, tick
until solstice…

A fake sacrifice about to happen on the Mall, a real one set for in here.

“How much faith do you have in the plan?” I ask.

“Not enough to wait for them,” Oz said. “We can’t.”

“That’s what I figured. So this is going to be interesting,” I say.

“What is?” Oz asks.

In answer, I shrug off my backpack and kick off the shoe – we agreed in advance it would be more dangerous to risk the gods striking out at something without knowing
what
– then duck under Oz’s arm. I stroll into the gas lit get-together like I’m holding an invitation.

None of them react right away. I have the element of surprise on my side, and I go straight for Dad. Dropping to my knees, I wince as they hit the marble, but reach for the knots on his wrist. I gasp at the burn of the rope when my fingers touch it. I’m forced to let go.

Dad blinks up at me. The cuts on his cheek from the trial are scabbed over an angry red. “Kyra…
No
.
” He pours such anguish into one word. Here I thought he might be a fraction happy to see me, even if it’s one last time. He closes his eyes, but then he reopens them and speaks in a rush. “You have to get out of here. You can’t be here. It’s not… It’s unsafe for you. William, please do me one favor and get her out of here.”

Bronson frowns down at us, giving every indication that he’s as disturbed by my presence as Dad is. “How did you get in?” he demands.

“I brought her,” Oz says.

“Osborne,” Bronson grits his name. “You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be helping her. You’ve betrayed your vows. I might be willing to show leniency
if
you take her outside
now
.”

I rise, as Dad continues to repeat variations on, “No, Kyra, listen, you have to leave. Please. Listen to me.” I move closer to Bronson, forcing him to face me down instead of barking orders at Oz. “Did you
really
think I’d just stay out in Virginia?” I ask him. “I’m a Locke. And I’m not going
anywhere
, not because you tell me to.”

He tsks agreement. “You’re right. I should have known better. You’ve proven yourself… resourceful. It’s impressive.” His composure is back in place, a hint of apology in his tone. He’s so nimble at putting on the mask of leader, director, sympathetic grandfather.

“Only you would have the nerve to try and flatter me right now,” I say. “You’re not recruiting me for your team.”

Set growls, and Bronson looks away from me to check the watch at his wrist. “We can talk about this later,” he says.

Before I can dodge, Bronson takes my arm and shoves me at Oz. Who catches me, a reflex, rather than letting me stumble past. The brief interlude allows Set room to block us and the others from access to Dad. His angular body faces the entrance, but his canine head turns so his narrow black eyes are trained on Oz and me.

Bronson reaches down to flip open the case on the floor. In seconds, he has the Solstice Was out of it and in his hand.

All we need is to accomplish a long enough delay. We have to prevent the ritual from taking place until solstice is past and the cavalry shows – if it does.

I press aside my worry about them and dive toward Dad. My hope is to keep Bronson from being able to get to him. But Set raises a pawed hand and, with one quick swipe, sends me flying back. Oz has to catch me again.

Bronson says, “Careful.”

“I will not hurt her unless forced to,” Set answers.

I’m not convinced, but it’s good enough for Bronson.

I’ve barely recovered my breath when Bronson takes the scepter and slashes the forked prongs of it across Dad’s wrist above the ropes. Dad gasps in pain. He manages to speak, but it’s the same refrain. “Kyra, you have to go,” he pleads. “Please.”

“You should have gone for the case, not your father,” Bronson says, like this is some training exercise. “Though I can hardly fault a daughter who cares so much.”

Set growls, but he’s answered by a deep rumble beyond him from Enki. The protest is too late.

Blood wells up from Dad’s wound. A faint trace of light appears around him, as if the brass sun below him is shining. I expected the door to the Afterlife to be dark. I wasn’t wrong. The glow begins to grow a thick border made out of shadows.

The main details of the ritual are simple. It begins with this, the spilling of Dad’s blood, and ends with his life’s blood at the exact moment of solstice, when the scepter is used to kill him. To prevent the door from opening, we have to make sure he lives. That’s it. If only it wasn’t so impossible.

Bronson points the Was scepter toward Dad, and says to Set, “That should give you a taste for Gabrielle’s blood. He is family, by marriage. You bring her to me, and everything will go as we agreed.”

Set lunges at Dad, and his muzzle stops above the wound. His black and pink tongue extends to lap away the seam of blood.

Loki jumps down beside the jackal-headed god. “Not sporting to eat when others are hungry. Or to eat humans at all,” Loki says. Then, “What is this, old friend? It doesn’t seem like a punishment.”

Set speaks, “It is a victory. Anyone who holds otherwise is a fool.”

“Peace,” Loki says. “I like some chaos. But the horned guy isn’t a fan, and he can be a problem.” He extends his thumb over his shoulder.

I look up – and up – at Enki. He’s stepped into the Great Hall, and his horns seem to stretch on forever, almost to the glass far above, as if we
are
in the abzu. He might be as tall as the world. Past, present, future. The blue scales of his skin glimmer.

“You should not be here, Kyra Locke,” Enki’s voice rings out. “It is not what your father desires. You should go from this place.”

I want to fall to my knees. Or, actually, I want to leave. The urge to do what Enki says is strong. There is a command in the words, but I fight it. “I’m staying right here.”

“Kyra, go,” Dad’s voice is getting fuzzy around the edges. “You can’t be here. This is all for you.
To save you
.”

“You can ground me, after this. I’m the one doing the saving.”
At least, I’m supposed to be
.
I whisper the most pressing question to Oz. “Where
are
they?”

“On their way, I hope,” he answers.

I still want to know where Legba is too, but I’m smart enough to know better than to voice
that
question out loud.