Godly heathens, p.10
Godly Heathens, page 10
This is where we have taken the Caretaker. This is where we have strapped the god of life to a stone slab so we can carve away the meat of her.
I’ve known for some time now that this could not be avoided. First was the Sun—she made herself the Shade’s first victim because of her own prying eyes, always trying to shed light on his secrets. And she did, in the end. She shed enough light that her lover, the Moon, came running. He made himself the second to fall.
The Inferno, like the Moon, came to us of their own accord. The god of fire believed their rage alone might quell the shadow spreading across the Ether’s surface. We put them down like mercy-killing a rabid dog.
Each time, the Shade has kept the powers we pull from the other gods’ bodies. There is good reason for this, he reminds me—I don’t need their power. I am the god of magic. I am untouchable. He is the one who needs the protection this new power provides. He is the one who has been abused for epochs by our pantheon.
When he says these things, I know he is attempting to manipulate me. Perhaps it even works. He does not know I would not keep their powers for myself, even if I wanted to. Because I am the god of magic—the keeper of the scales. There is nothing any of the others can do that I am not already capable of. While they operate in their limited realms with free rein, I can do anything, so long as I pay for it. This is balance. My existence is meant to offset theirs.
But were I to take one of their realms for myself? To open the floodgates for my magic without sacrifice? I do not know that the scales could ever be balanced again.…
No, he must be the one to inherit their gifts. Only when he holds dominion over all other realms will he be my equal—worthy of ruling this world at my side.
But first, the Caretaker must go. We will never control this world until life and death sit together in the palms of our hands.
I know this. Just as I know that what we are doing is true to my purpose—there is no justice in turning one of our kind into a scapegoat as the others have done to the Shade. His rise to power is the only way to balance the scales of history. This new era, our era, is what I was destined to bring forth. I am certain of it. I am certain of him.
And yet … somehow, I know all of this to be true, and my stomach still aches at the sight of the Caretaker on the slab.
I cannot seem to make myself move. My knife-wielding hand is frozen just above her chest, already carved open. I watch, disgusted and fascinated, as her exposed, bloody heart continues to pump without the armor of her ribs.
The Shade presses his hand to my lower back, stepping in against me. His horrible teeth brush the side of my face. “What ails you, creature?”
I try to speak, but my throat is tight with bile. I watch as tears spill from the corners of the Caretaker’s eyes, streaking toward what used to be round cheeks. Now they’re only empty craters of raw flesh and broken teeth in the center of what was once a beautiful face.
Finally, I find my voice. “Perhaps we could commence a moratorium. We have already taken a great deal of her power. I can feel it within the blade. And she will not seem … to die.”
Why will she not just die? The agony she must be in is beyond comprehension. Her body is unrecognizable, a mutilated puddle of ivory and crimson and fleshy pink. It is unthinkable to me that she is clinging to consciousness, even now, no matter what I bring myself to do to her.
Life, I suppose, finds a way.
“You know we cannot stop,” the Shade sighs. He kisses the top of my head, his fingers curling around my waist to pull me gently to his chest. A too-tender embrace in the midst of this carnage. “If she were to survive, and even a fraction of her power were to remain within her, it could be catastrophic. All of this, all that she has already suffered, would be for naught. We cannot risk that, can we?”
One of her green eyes begins to droop from its smashed socket.
“I suppose not.…”
Steeling my shoulders, I press the tip of the Ouroboros to the underside of her jaw. But just before I press the blade in to begin the process of removing her head from her spine, an awful moan begins to leak from her mouth. The creaking, popping, baritone crackle is low and broken as she struggles to form words, and nearly hidden beneath the noise on the heavy-trafficked street over our heads.
I lean forward, trying to make out something like language in the grotesque sound of her dying rattle. I don’t know that I actually do. Perhaps I know what she means to say, somehow. Or perhaps I simply imagine I can make out something syllabic and project my own fear onto her tongue.
But I swear the Caretaker whispers, “May death evade you forever.”
I shoot backward. How am I meant to take that?
Is she assuring me I will live for an eternity with the weight of what I’ve done?
Or begging a power higher than either of us that her twin sister, the Reaper, never falls beneath my knife?
My life has already been so long, and I have never feared death in all this time. Only now, in the wake of the sins brought forth tonight by my own hands, do I find myself nervous to meet death’s eyes. I am afraid. I am very afraid.
Again, the world rocks beneath me, this time seeming to spin until everything is a blur. The Ether and the dollar store swirl in a mismatched jumble of color and sound, reality and unreality banging together like pots against pans. It makes me so dizzy that I would scream if I weren’t worried about throwing up.
As quickly as it began, it stops. The swirling ends so abruptly that it knocks me off my feet, and I fall to the dirty floor. It takes me a moment to notice I really am screaming, out loud, in the dollar store. Another moment for me to stop. And a third for me to realize the lights in this place are flickering more wildly than they were before, like an electric pulse has just gone ricocheting off the walls.
Indy has dropped all the snacks in his hand to kneel next to me, one hand on my back as he rubs between my shoulder blades. His sharp eyes are bright with concern.
Somewhere else in the store, the clerk is yelling about a generator.
“Gem,” Indy starts, but I cut him off.
“I gotta go.” I grab the shelf to haul myself to my feet, groaning at the vertigo that hits me in the gut. I don’t know how I’m going to drive home like this, but there’s no way I’m staying here, no way I’m actually going to Indy’s house. “I’m sorry—I’m—I’m sorry.”
What else is there to say? I can’t explain any of this.
The sight of the Caretaker’s beating heart flashes through my mind. With every ticking of my own pulse, I hear hers winding down to its end. Ba-boom … ba-boom … ba-boom …
I feel Indy’s eyes on me the whole time I stumble my way outside. I zigzag through the parking lot like I’ve had too many filched wine coolers. It takes me three tries to get the car door open, two to start the engine, and I’m pretty sure I tap someone’s bumper on the way out of the lot.
Less than a mile down the road, I have to swerve into the ditch because I keep drifting into the wrong lane.
I don’t even know what I’m doing until I’m already doing it. My phone’s in my hand and I’m opening up my muted text thread with Enzo and seeing that he responded hours ago.
Little Dumbass
I’m glad you’re okay.
I’m not okay. I’m so far from okay that I don’t think I’m ever going to be okay again. How am I supposed to get through this? Even if I can somehow win against Poppy, I’m never going to be me again, am I?
Fuck. Poppy.
“May death evade you forever.”
Death isn’t evading me. She isn’t even trying. She’s coming right for my head, and of course she is—I killed her twin sister. And the way I did it …
How much longer did the god of life hold on? How many more bones did I dig out of her skin? How many of her organs did she watch spill to the floor with her one remaining eye? I’d been planning to behead her—how long can a god stay conscious while someone uses a dagger to saw off their head?
“Hello?”
Freeze.
Enzo’s voice. Where is Enzo’s voice coming from?
It’s enough to shock my system into a restart. Like being splashed with cold water.
Phone. In my hand. I called him. I called Enzo. I don’t remember doing that. I don’t even remember thinking about doing it.
But there he is. In my hand. On the phone.
“Gem? Hello?”
I struggle for something to say—scramble for the ability to say anything at all, to push aside my panic and nausea and panic and pretend I’m okay and pretend I’m human and pretend everything isn’t going to get worse, just so I can say, “Hi.”
A single syllable. And it sounds pathetic, even to me.
“Gem, I—” On his end of the call, a door closes. Enzo’s voice melts, like warm honey, tone softening when he speaks again. “Hey, what’s going on? You don’t sound good.”
I’m not good. I’m not sure I ever have been.
Tears burn my eyes. I drop my phone into my lap to drag my nails across my face, like I might be able to claw away the fit before it begins. And still, a sob slips its leash, breaking through the fence of my throat when I answer, “Things are getting bad.”
And I can’t tell you why.
“Oh. Oh, darling.” More shuffling. He sighs. It’s the weekend in Brooklyn. I wonder which cool queer apartment he’s hanging out at. “What can I do?”
“I just—” I shove my hand in my mouth, biting down at my knuckles to stifle the scream that can’t seem to stop itself from bubbling out of me. Everything is too big. My body isn’t strong enough to hold it all in. Wrapping saliva-slicked fingers around the steering wheel, I choke out, “I just wish I was with you. I just want to be with you.”
“You will be. You’re going to be here so soon, and I’m gonna take care of you, and everything’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I love you, and we’ll be together soon.”
He keeps repeating this, variations of the same oath over and over again, a whispered chant through my speaker.
And I can’t say anything back, just sit in the driver’s seat of my mom’s car, in the ditch in the middle of nowhere, and cry until I think I might puke.
I cry because I’m tired and lonely and scared. I cry because I don’t know that Enzo’s right; I don’t know that we will be together, ever, now.
I cry, mourning the life I once knew.
9
THERE ARE NO CIS GODS
The next time I see the Shade, he’s pinning me down with his teeth at my throat. Sex, not murder.
It’s Sunday night, and I’m dreaming. Beyond the fog, I can make out my open bedroom window and Hank snoring on my floor. I left on the light in my closet, and my laptop’s open on my bedside table; I fell asleep watching Euphoria with the Discord group.
In front of the fog, though, is my shirtless demon, one hand curled around my back to lift my body toward his, the other tangled in my hair as he kisses across my jaw. It’s a terrible thing, being kissed by someone with a mouth like this, knowing my flesh would tear so easily for him; a terrible thing that this monster could eat me alive. Somehow, I still tilt my head back to offer him my throat.
This night took place before we carved the Caretaker open. We haven’t even killed the Inferno yet. We’re riding on the high of taking out the Sun and the Moon. Their power’s passed to my demon; now he controls both day and night.
And I control him. It’s an intoxicating thing to have a monster this lethal pin me down—while knowing he’s nothing without me.
His head dips lower, sweeping from my neck to my chest, the hint of his fangs brushing my sternum. When he tilts his eyes toward mine, they glitter an uncanny shade of silver laced with gold. A new development.
“Do you know why I love you, creature?” His voice is roughened. It’s been a long day. I can still smell the coppery whisper of blood in the room.
“You don’t.” I chuckle, brushing my knuckles against his handsome face, curling my fingers beneath his jaw. “You love what I can make you.”
“I do love our alliance,” he smirks, wicked, leaning forward to nip my skin. A bloom of soft red appears between my stomach and his lips. He doesn’t seem to notice my blood painting his mouth. “But I love you because you are the only one who has ever truly seen me. Do you know that? Do you know you are the only one who has ever tried?”
He hums, and I feel his breath against my navel. “The version of myself I am with you does not exist in the presence of any other—it cannot. I never wish to lose this feeling.”
Now-me feels like my heart might burst. What a grotesquely soft admission from the worst person to ever live. What a humiliatingly familiar feeling.
Then-me is less moved, at least on the surface. I tangle my fingers in his hair, pressing down at the top of his head. He leaves a trail of scarlet kiss stains down my stomach as he moves lower, and lower …
It feels like someone grabs a rope behind my belly button and yanks on it. The me in my bed doesn’t move, can’t move, but the me in my memory is tossed away, disappearing like Alice going round and round down the rabbit hole. That same dizzying feeling from the dollar store hits me.
The vision blurs, spinning out, replaced by something else. As it does, the spinning begins to fade, settling until both versions of me can catch our breath. The Shade is gone.
I am Billie Campbell, once again. I’m sitting at a desk in the back of my father’s bank, with my human older brother, Jack. And I’m holding the Ouroboros between us.
“I told Rosie I was taking it to the caves in Chickamauga. We agreed, with Wanda and Constance getting so close, it can’t stay with us anymore. And it’d be well hidden there, until next time.”
The name Constance makes my stomach churn. Wanda was the Reaper’s last lifetime, but Constance was the Lionheart, the god of battle, her ominous other half. I still haven’t recovered my memories of her. But my instincts fire off a warning shot. Not good.
Jack Campbell is a sweet boy with big blue eyes and black hair, pink-faced and openhearted and loyal enough to die for me without complaint. That’s why I chose him for this task.
“Do you want me to take it? To the caves?” he asks, leaning forward.
“No.” I place the dagger on top of the desk, pushing it toward him. “I do want you to take it. Not there.”
My brother frowns, eyes darting between me and the knife, before he reaches forward and picks it up. “What do I do?”
“I need you to keep it hidden. No matter what happens, don’t let it fall out of the hands of our family. We’ll keep it tucked away in plain sight, the last place our enemies would think to look.” I reach across the table and place my hand over his, curling our fists together over the sharp edge of the blade. “And, Jack? You don’t tell a soul. As far as you know, this knife is long gone. This secret goes with you to your grave.”
He trembles, eyes as wide as I’ve ever seen them. “Of course. Whatever you need, Magician. Anything to keep you safe.”
“Good.” I smile, knowing he means it. “That’ll be all, then.”
Jack rises from his seat and I, Gem Echols, shoot up in bed so fast that Hank barks without opening his eyes. My heart struggles to return to a normal speed while my eyes adjust to the semidarkness of the bedroom.
Okay. Okay.
Of three things, I’m feeling pretty certain.
One—no relationship has ever been more toxic or sexy than the one between original-me and the god of things forbidden.
Two—multiple versions of past-me really sucked.
And three—I think we have our first lead on the Ouroboros’s location.
* * *
When I slide into Willa Mae’s Jeep on Monday morning, she silently passes me a warm thermos that smells like chai. She’s dressed in the most patch-covered denim jacket I’ve ever seen. There’s a SHE/THEY pin on her shoulder.
“Of course you’re trans,” I mumble, as if this is some kind of inconvenience. Which it is, obviously. They continue to make themself more and more interesting to be around, and I really don’t need that.
“There are no cis gods,” they scoff. Willa Mae takes a sip from their own thermos—which smells like honey and mint and lavender—before asking, “All right, are you gonna tell me about this dream?”
I’d texted them when I woke up, telling them to meet me here—with caffeine—so we could go over the things I saw the night before. Well. Some of the things I saw. Settling into the passenger seat, I launch into the details, starting from the moment the Ouroboros got involved, and leaving out everything about the Shade’s half-naked body.
Their face grows increasingly more perturbed. By the time I finish, they’re glaring, fingertips tapping against their drink in a rhythm that manages to sound hateful.
“What?” This was not the reaction I was expecting.
“You didn’t tell me any of this.”
“I—literally, I just did. What do you mean?”
“No.” They roll their eyes. “You didn’t tell me about any of this when it happened. You went back on our plan and you did it behind my back. Why?”
“Uh.” This is so dramatically far away from the point. “Does that matter? Do you want to have a couple’s spat in the school parking lot, or do you want to use this information to find the knife?”
Willa Mae narrows their eyes further and continues to stare at me like they’re actually weighing their options.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Okay, fine.” They sigh. “So, you told your brother to keep it in the family. So, it’s probably, what, with some distant cousin by now?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I doubt it. My dad’s family is pretty small. The Campbell line got filed down a lot, from what I can tell. You said my grandparents were record keepers. Maybe they had the knife.”
