The Woken Gods (3 page)

“Wait up,” Tam says, suddenly between us. His arms prevent our escape.

My chest tightens. A month ago, I’d have turned into Tam’s touch. I’d have spun to face him, stepping lightly onto his heavy boots and touching my lips to his, and Bree would’ve quipped, “Cough cough,” or something else vaguely chastising to remind us she was still there. We would’ve laughed, my hand in his as we walked home.

None of that is going to happen today.

“We can still hang out, right?” he asks.

My response is careful. I’m honestly not sure of the answer. “Can we?”

Tam is half-Vietnamese with overgrown black hair that’s always a mess. The three of us used to hang out all the time. Bree misses having him around, and so do I.
I
messed up our group dynamic. The breakup was my fault.

He drops his arms, and my sense of constriction eases. His answer for now must be that we can, because when Bree and I set off up the sidewalk, so does he. He lives in a different part of town than us, but in the same general direction.

“There’s a Skeptics meeting tonight,” he says.

“We know,” Bree agrees.

“Are you coming?” he asks.

Tam’s parents run the group, the most vocal and organized of the Society’s critics. Dad hates that I go to the meetings, which, of course, only makes them more attractive.

“I forgot about it,” I say. A lie. “I think maybe I have to be home tonight.”

Bree frowns at me. “Since when?”

I give her a look that I hope communicates something along the lines of:
What are you doing, please go along with me, OK?
In answer, Bree shrugs one shoulder. She’s ready to pretend mine and Tam’s relationship never existed. If only I was ready for the same.

Tam says, “There’s no reason this has to be weird.”

“Please both of you stop,” I say. “This is not normal. You’re supposed to repress this stuff, not talk about it. For my sake, repress.”

Tam and Bree exchange grins that that make me want to run again.

“
You’re
telling
us
to repress?” Bree asks.

She’s still curious about why we broke up. I haven’t given her a reason.

Tam adds, “Since when do you care about normal?”

He wears that smile, the one that lured me into bad decisions in the first place. I don’t respond.

Bree and Tam stop prodding me and turn back to the topic of the Skeptics meeting, what’s on the agenda, who’s supposed to be there. I count the seconds until I can break off from the two of them. For once, being alone at home seems infinitely desirable. I will put a record on the turntable – vinyl forever, now that most digital stuff’s spazzy when
it works at all – and crank the volume way too loud and stare at my bedroom ceiling and pretend this awkwardness never took place. Iggy Pop, maybe? Or Patti Smith? The old punk stuff is easy to dig out at the market, and I’ve amassed a decent collection.

We reach the back of the National Academy of Sciences campus, the main building a hulking stone rectangle. The street next to it is our usual path to the Mall, the quickest and prettiest way home. Shade trees dot the grounds. Their leafy canopies sway in a light breeze.

Wanting some distance from Bree and Tam’s too-easy conversation, I brace on the low concrete wall and jump up into the yard. Tam extends a hand to Bree to help her follow. He leaps up behind her.

So much for distance.

I reach the platform that houses the Academy’s enormous bronze statue of Albert Einstein. He sits on a trio of steps, a sheaf of papers in one hand, looking a little thoughtful, a little sad. This was always the spot where Dad and I stopped to rest on runs. It’s one of my favorite spots in the city.

I climb the steps and put a hand on Albert’s arm with the intent of clambering over him, just like I used to when I was younger. Instead, I fall backward in mute shock.

Tam is close enough to lunge in and catch me. He holds me with my back pressed against his chest. My heart pounds, but not because he’s touching me. Because of what caused me to lose my balance.

An impossibly tall god perches on Albert’s ragged halo of hair. His shadow falls over us, blocking the heat of the sun completely. I realize that the god is at least the same height as the statue.

The statue is twelve feet tall. Dad told me that once.

A cobra-like hood flares on both sides of his terrifying snake’s face. His long, scaled arms slither over the sheaf of papers grasped in Einstein’s giant brass hands.

Outside the Tricksters’ Council and other gods with big followings, knowing every one of them would be like memorizing the name of every plant and flower, every rock and river. I wish I had done it anyway. I have no clue which god this is.

My breathing gets shallower by the second, and my heart beats so hard the god
must
be able to hear it.

Tam speaks, low. “It’ll be alright. Don’t move.”

The god’s eyes aren’t like an
actual
snake’s. Red lids lie heavy over globes set deep. I’m pretty sure Tam’s wrong, that none of this will be anything close to alright. Because I am almost certain that the god is looking at
me
. Not at Tam
and
me, just at me.

I can’t quite get my breath. I feel weak. I’m like a leaf in a strong wind, about to be carried off for good.

But I force myself to take a step away from Tam.

“Kyra,” he says.

“Tam,” I murmur, “stay back.”

The god’s red globe eyes follow me. Unmistakably.

“Kyra,” Tam says again.

“Stay put,” I say.

I’m the furthest thing from a hero, but maybe I can keep his attention long enough for them to get out of here. Bree must be even more scared than I am. Her sketches alone are proof that this is her worst nightmare. If the god wants me, for whatever reason, there’s nothing any of us can do about that.

I shift to the side… and he jumps down. He lands a few feet away from me, his scaly skin like wet black glass. He reaches out to rest a misshapen hand against my cheek, and his touch is cold enough to burn. His mouth opens, red tongue flickering out. Words pour into my mind:
He took it, and now we will take you
.

The strap of my backpack falls off my shoulder because I’m shaking so hard. I shrug it the rest of the way loose, and it drops into my waiting hand. This is the only weapon I have, and so I sling it at the god as hard as I can.

He knocks the bag away with a motion so fast it blurs.

If I don’t get out of here somehow, I’m done for. But my legs won’t move.

A deep voice says, “Now, now, Mehen. Calm down. We can’t have that. Your master’s not even here yet.”

I recognize the god who interrupts. West African, and he goes by more names than some others. Eshu, Elegua, but mostly known as Legba. He has on a black suit, but there is nothing else that seems human about him. He slowly approaches me, his brilliant red pupils surrounded by uniform black.

He’s one of the Council. Supposed protectors of humanity, though now I wish I’d never been to a Skeptics meeting, never heard their theories. The Skeptics claim the gods would gladly wipe out humanity if they could do it without risking death. The tricksters included.

I turn my head to find Bree mostly hidden behind Einstein, and Tam out in the open halfway between the two of us. He must be considering doing something stupid.

No,
I think at him,
I’m not worth it. Stay where you are
.

“I want a word with the Locke girl before he gets here, if you don’t mind,” Legba says.

I blink. Shocked. Confused.

The snake god stays put.

“Have it your way.” Legba comes closer to me. His teeth when he grins are sharp and pointed like a shark’s. He grips a cane in one hand, though he doesn’t lean on it. He twirls it in his fingers.

It’s made of metal and bone, and I’d bet anything the bone is of the human variety.

He follows my attention. “The old and the new. I like them both.” He extends the cane out to one side, pointing it at Tam. “No need for that, boy. Stay where you are. You should trust me. Your father does.”

The whole time Legba never takes his red pupils off me. “Your life is about to get very interesting. But remember, Locke girl, it’s
your
life. For better, or for worse. You do like to run, but something tells me you won’t go far, not this time,” and he leans in, his lips far too close to my ear. My terror is cold and blind and fixes me to the spot. I can’t even flinch. “You might try Enki House for him. Though I wouldn’t share that fact. Not if I were you.” Shark teeth flash as he backs away, grinning.

For
him
who?
I think.

Legba says, “Look, Mehen, here he is now.”

Another
trickster appears on the lawn not far from us. Dust rises around him in a cloud, despite there being only grass beneath our feet.

It’s Set, the Egyptian who is the strangest of all the city’s gods. He has a jackal’s elongated head with a sharp curved snout, his body a blend of canine and human. His square ears lift to attention, and his long forked tail writhes through the air behind him. He raises his arms and more dust appears from nowhere. Flecks of it hit my skin.

A whirlwind of… not dust,
sand
surrounds us, particles rotating slowly under Set’s control.

“That’s my cue,” Legba says, and is gone.

In the next moment, the sand builds and descends over all of us in a wave, and we’re caught in a dry, roiling ocean. I squeeze my eyes shut. I hear Tam call my name. Bree screams. I make a noise, but the whistling shriek of the sand swallows it. I drop, burying my face between my knees, curling into a ball.

Through the stinging fury of the sand, Mehen’s snake-cold hands touch my neck, my arms, and then lift me off the ground. I struggle, but I can’t open my eyes. Mehen carries me as if I weigh no more than my backpack.

In the sandstorm, no one will see. He can take me anywhere. All Tam and Bree will know is that I’m not here anymore.

I struggle harder, but when the god releases me, the drop is so unexpected it knocks my breath away. I hit the ground hard.

The sand swirls once more before it settles. Mehen steps over me.

Spitting out grains of sand, I sit up and see my saviors.

Society field operatives fan out into the yard in their familiar navy uniforms. I scan for him but, like laughing Legba, sandstorm-causing Set is already gone.

The snake god stands in front of me as if I’m a prize he has to protect. The operatives approach him warily.

Most of them are adults. But a skinny blond boy not much older than me pages through some kind of small black notebook and mutters to himself as he gets closer to Mehen. He has something else in one of his hands too, a green cuff of some kind, and he looks from it to the god, his dismay clear... He frowns at the book, and Mehen glides toward him.

I consider shouting a warning, but the boy glances up and finds the god coming at him before I can. He backs away, his panic reminding me of my own.

He doesn’t see the other boy running up behind him. This one is taller, all lean muscle and speed, with angular features and dark brown hair clipped short. He’s like a human knife slicing through the air. He draws back the string of his bow, and lets a quarrel fly. It pierces one side of the snake god’s hood, drawing a hiss of pain.

The boy-like-a-knife tosses the bow aside so he can shove the backpedaling blond boy out of the way. He says, “Move it, Justin!”

He leaps into the space the other boy occupied. The god flings his arm out hard and fast. The blow will knock the boy out, maybe even kill him – except that it doesn’t connect.

Despite his successful dodge, the boy curses, first in English, which I understand, and then speaking what I think might be Ancient Greek. Definitely ancient something. He dips in close enough to… touch the god’s face. Not that different from how the god touched mine. His hand rests against one scaly cheek for a breath, before he steps back.

I wait for the god to go after him, but he doesn’t budge. At all. His red globe eyes are open and fixed on the brown-haired boy.

“Quick,” the boy waves the other operatives forward, “it won’t hold him long.”

Two men advance and sling a loop of golden rope over the god, a more visible binding than whatever the boy did. I have never seen a relic this close, but everyone knows the theory of how they work. The Society collected all of them that it could find and spent hundreds of years figuring out how to activate the gods’ magic that remains within them. Each produces a different effect.

The hero of the moment offers a hand to the other boy and helps him up. The blond’s cheeks are pink with what can only be embarrassment.

Dude,
I want to say,
that was a snake god. You and I, we understand each other. I can’t believe you tried to get close to him in the first place
.
But I’m still trying to clear my throat so I can speak.

Tam leads Bree over, supporting her with an arm. They are both coated in a fine layer of sand, and I check my clothes to confirm I am too.

When they reach me, I finally manage to choke out my question, “Is it over? We’re safe?”

The brown-haired boy stops in front of us. “Yes, it is,” he says. “Yes, you are.” His British accent is a surprise. He takes in Bree and Tam, but focuses on me.

“How did you know to come here?” Tam asks.

“Thank you, is what he means,” I say. They did save us. But it’s possible Tam doesn’t know the snake god tried to take me. I shiver.

“We just did,” the boy answers Tam. He extends his hand to me. I take it, a reflex without really thinking, to shake. But he puts his other one over the top of mine instead, and the touch helps steady me after the shock of the last few minutes. His pupils are small in the sun, irises the gray-blue of the Potomac River.

It’s nice to look into eyes that are
normal
eyes, and not those of threatening gods.

“Sandstorm, I take it?” he asks.

I nod.

“Set
was
here,” he says. “Interesting.”