Imprisoned Gods

by G. Bailey

  I cross my arms as the wind blows against me, making the god awful smell of pond water that much stronger. I need a shower like yesterday. As I walk through the door that Peyton left open, closing it gently behind me, I’m immediately struck by the smell of mum’s cooking, which is followed by the pungent undertones of polish. Something is up. Mum doesn’t get the polish out unless there is a good reason.

  The house is warm, bright and relaxing from the moment you step inside. The paneled windows let in a great deal of natural light, and the antique furniture and carefully-curated paintings on the walls give it an air of homeyness- even, I suspect, for someone who doesn’t live here. Elsewhere in the house, I can hear my other siblings bustling about, most of them probably just returning from their latest missions. The sound of mum cooking filters into the front entryway, but it immediately silences the moment I let the door fall shut behind me.

  Mum sweeps out of the kitchen like a whirlwind, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron as she stops on the threshold. I glance at her flowery top tucked into dark trousers and her dark red hair pulled neatly into a bun. Her eyes are like mine, big and green, but she is taller than I am - which isn’t fair, if you ask me. She puts her hands on her hips as she takes in my appearance, and looks as if she’s about to question me about it, but then seems to think the better of it, pursing her lips instead. Thank the gods for small favors. “Karma, there you are!” she says. “Where on earth have you been? And why are you soaking wet?”

  I sigh. So much for that then. “Believe me,” I tell her, “you don’t want to know.” She eyes me incredulously, and it becomes clear that she’s not going to leave this alone. “I had a bit of an accident on my last job,” I mutter, breaking eye contact and scuffing the sole of my boot against the floor. “But it all worked out in the end - I delivered the karma. And don’t worry, don’t worry,” I add, putting up my hands when she opens her mouth to ask the inevitable question. “The guy’s fine. Not that he deserves it, if you ask me, but…”

  Mum sighs and shakes her head. “What are we going to do with you, Karma?” she asks, and then shakes herself. “Well, at any rate, I’m glad you’re home. Your brother has a new girlfriend, and he is bringing her back for dinner. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “Does she know what we are?” I ask, a little bit curious. “And which one of my dipshit brothers is this unlucky girl dating, anyway?”

  “None of that talk in my house, young lady!” Mum snaps, putting her hands on her hips as I take my coat off. I don’t miss her frowning when she sees the state of the leather - stuck stiffly to my body, still damp and covered in green algae.

  I put my hands up. “Sorry, sorry!”

  Pey arrives just then, coming to a stop behind Mum and leaning against the kitchen door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. I smirk up at him, exchanging a look that we’re both familiar with at this point. He laughs, shaking his head and running a hand through his red locks. Our younger brothers are dipshits, and Mum damn well knows it as well as we do. Oh, we love them, don’t get me wrong - but you can love your pet gerbil, too, and that doesn’t make it any less of an idiot. Honestly, I’m looking forward to the day when they really get into their careers as karma gods and make me look like less of a screw-up. Gods know they won’t be any better at it than I am.

  If mum took note of the smirk I shared with Peyton, she gives no indication, instead giving a sniff as her voice takes on a businesslike tone. “Now,” she says, “this girl is human and hasn’t a clue about us yet. So - I mean it - no magic or messing around. We don’t want to scare her off.”

  “No idea at all? Oh god, she is going to be like that last human girl you brought back who ran out the house screaming,” I say, crossing the threshold and coming to a stop next to my brother.

  Pey rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me. Humans and us, well, we don’t mix well. I doubt I’m ever going to find a decent human woman who isn’t frightened by our family. It’s only the weird ones who like this shit,” he comments. “Though it was a real shame with that one. She was blonde, with these massive—” Pey stops when I whack him on the arm and flash him a disgusted look. There are some things sisters do not need to know about their older brothers.

  “Guys, please,” Mum says, sounding exasperated. “This is your brother’s first real girlfriend, so we are going to behave and act like humans for one meal. Understood?” She looks flustered, and it becomes clear from the anxiety on her face that she’s stressing about this dinner. It must be my youngest brother who is bringing a girl home, then. Damien is only seventeen, and clearly crazy if he thinks bringing a human girl to visit a family of karma gods is a good idea.

  Peyton and Hugo have learnt that humans and this house isn’t a good idea. Hugo lucked out and managed to find a long term girlfriend who actually knows what we are - and, more importantly, is cool with it. I can tell my mum is itching for him to propose to her, and I’m sure she will drop another hint tonight at the meal. But Hugo is the exception, and not just among my family; this is a problem that plagues gods of all sorts. The supernatural dating pool is rather limited, which leaves us with humans as our main possibility for romance. The only problem, of course, is finding a human who won’t lose their mind when they find out that gods are real - or one who isn’t straight-up batshit insane. Peyton hasn’t had as much luck as Hugo in the dating department; he may be the oldest of us all at twenty-nine, but he never did find a woman who was able to accept the truth of our lives.

  I don’t even know how I would tell a guy about all this. Dating is damn hard for us, especially since we can’t date other gods. It’s some ancient, archaic rule about mixing the bloodlines - it sounds like a lot of hogwash on the surface, but gods still subscribe to the rule. My only guess is that the powers that be - meaning, the powers that be in our society - have determined that crossing bloodlines might create a god too powerful to be contained. Combine that with the possible logistical problems of having, say, a child whose mum was a god of death and whose dad was a god of life, and you can sort of understand the logic… even if it sucks.

  Mum messes with her shirt and starts fixing her hair, looking more flustered by the moment. Where the hell is dad to calm her down? Somehow, my awesome dad can just look at mum and, almost magically, she relaxes. He’s human though, so it’s not really magic. It’s just his special way about things.

  “How are you going to explain the talking goat then, mum?” I ask, glancing at the five family photos behind her of us all, with Michael the goat in each one of them. You have to understand that my mother is a highly competitive woman. That’s one of the reasons she’s so eager to see Hugo married off; it will give her bragging rights amongst both humans and other supernaturals. If she has the chance to one-up someone, even in the most petty of situations, you can be damn well sure she’ll take it. Unfortunately, though, that leads to some… interesting conflicts, especially when dealing with equally-competitive people. Michael is the result of a series of escalating incidents involving our human next-door neighbor. They had begun unofficially competing with each other over who had the fancier garden from the moment they moved in. Mum, who had magic on her side, was able to grow a flower garden that got bigger and bigger every day. The neighbour eventually upped his game and got a water fountain built in, complete with a light show. Needless to say, mum couldn’t let that go, and being what we are, she used her powers to sense that our neighbour was, and still is, terrified of goats. Therefore, naturally, I went outside one day to see a shaggy gray goat munching on the grass of our lawn. Just to twist the knife, Mum named him Michael, after the next door neighbour. Only issue? It’s a bloody cursed goat. This is what we get for shopping at the magical markets instead of just going to a human farm; it talks, tells jokes, and likes to mess with our neighbour - even more than mum does, something I hadn’t even thought possible. I have to admit, though, it’s pretty funny to see the human running into his house from his garden ever time Michael whispers things thr
ough the hole in the fence. Sooner or later he’s going to have a psychotic break, and as much as I feel bad for the guy, I just can’t help it; schadenfreude is just in my nature.

  “Michael is eating the vegetables I got him today at the end of the garden,” Mom replies, waving a hand. “I’ve told him to behave himself, so it shouldn’t be an issue. I’m going to finish getting dinner ready, and in the meantime, I want the two of you to go and shower. You both smell of pond, car oil and god knows what else.”

  “Got it,” I say, wanting to quickly get out of here before mum asks me. I’ve managed to skirt giving her a real explanation for our current state, and I definitely don’t want to have to go into the details. The last thing I want is for her to know that it wasn’t an accident, that in reality, I messed up another job, and Pey had to save me. Again.

  5

  The shower was a blessing, and as I scrub the horrid smell off of my body, I warn myself to try to keep the surliness to a Although, I think, as I shampoo my hair a second time just to be on the safe side, I guess that will depend on how much of an airhead this girl turns out ot be. I know it’s not very charitable of me to be thinking this way, but I’ve had a hell of a day, and the last thing I want is to have to fake pleasantry with the kind of girl who would have bullied me back in high school.

  After finishing towel drying my hair, because applying any kind of heat to my frizzy hair would be madness, I return to my room and open my wardrobe. Choosing a green top that says "I have hidden secrets" and a pair of skinny jeans, I pull them on and reach down to the three layers of shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe.

  "You are all so pretty," I whisper, running a hand over my collection of high heels. I wouldn’t necessarily call it an addiction, per se, but I’ll be the first to admit that I may have a small problem with buying shoes. Though hey, at least it's not drugs or magic injections. We all have our vices...or at least, that’s what I tell myself whenever I buy another pair of high heels. I know they aren’t exactly practical for someone in my line of work, but all else being equal, I don’t understand how any girl wouldn't love shoes.

  I have a good list of reasons why heels are the best creation in history…well, after peanut butter, that is. Reason one: they make you taller. That's a pretty important reason when you're five foot, three inches, and everyone in your life is taller than you. These heels give me a chance. Reason two...well, they are just pretty. What else could you want? I firmly believe that anyone who claims to not like high heels just hasn’t found the right pair yet, and you can take that to the bank. Reason three: they are good weapons to throw at sleezeball ex-boyfriends. I pull out a shiny black pair with black glitter bows on the back. They are adorable. I slide them on before shutting the wardrobe and checking my reflection once more before leaving my small bedroom.

  I close the door and look down the long corridor at all the shut doors, secretly hoping my family is already at the and that I won't have to make small talk with this human girl. Seventeen-year-olds are usually annoying—I was at that age for sure, even if for different reasons. I was the kind of bratty seventeen-year-old who rubs her youth and standoffishness in everyone’s face, no matter how much I secretly wanted to enjoy myself. But I’ve found that the overly-peppy kind can be equally as bad, and I’ve seen enough of Damien’s taste in girls that I have a feeling tonight’s visitor is going to lean more towards that end of the spectrum. I make sure to stay on the right side of the corridor as I pass the haunted painting that mum bought dad for his fortieth birthday. Obviously, she hadn’t known that it was haunted at the time, but that’s not much comfort when it’s prone to attack you at random intervals. The painting is of an old house with yellow glowing windows, and when you’re least expecting it, a hand will jump out of the canvas and grab at you. How mum just thought it was a nice piece of art, I will never know.

  “I have a dare for you, sis,” my Tweedledee dumb brother says, stopping me on the stairs. Hugo has black hair, making him look like the oddball in a family of redheads, but trust me, he is the oddest one. I'm sure of it. He looks just like my dad; they have the same nose and eyes and the same temperament at times. Both of them like to act crazy and then blame it on someone else.

  “Don’t do this,” I warn him. “If you dare me, I have to do it on principle, and then I’ll have to dare you back just to make things equal.”

  “Isn’t that the fun of it?” Hugo asks, smirking a little.

  I snort. “Maybe at first. But then the whole family gets involved, and the next thing you know, the house is full of shitting ducks,” I mutter. "Mum banned us from daring each other, remember?"

  “That happened one time,” Hugo protests, “and it was pretty funny to see mum’s face when that duck landed on her head. Anyway,” he continues, “mum wasn't serious. I don't think she was anyway."

  “You’re right, that was pretty funny,” I grin, and roll my eyes as he excitedly watches me. “All right, fine. You’d best hope she wasn’t serious, or I’m totally throwing you under the bus. What do you want me to do?” I cross my arms in front of my chest, unable to resist the alluring draw of a challenge. Dares are like catnip for me - I attack them with a vengeance, and to hell with anyone who tells me not to take them seriously. Call it a side effect of growing up with brothers.

  "I dare you to invite Michael to the meal," Hugo replies, looking proud of himself as he straightens up and waits for my reaction. Boys never grow up, I’m sure of it.

  "Mum's going to kill us," I mutter, though I can’t help but smile at the idea of Michael randomly walking into the posh dining room. “She literally just told me Michael’s supposed to stay out in the garden.”

  "True,” agrees Hugo, “but that girl Damien has brought back is way too fucking hot for him, and he’s been acting like a douche canoe. “

  I laugh. “I love that word.”

  Hugo nods, the seriousness of his expression hysterical. “It’s a damn good word, especially for how Damien’s been acting. None of us will be able to put up with him if she sticks around.”

  I start to head down the stairs, Hugo trailing behind me slowly like a lost puppy. “Can’t we just leave him alone and hope he leaves us alone?” I ask.

  “That depends,” Hugo replies. “How much Axe Body Spray do you want to have to smell over the next six months? His manners have gone out the window, and all he does anymore is sit around and gloat about how much of a catch she is.”

  It’s true, I guess; Damien has really seemed to crank up the obnoxiousness lately. I walk to the end of the corridor, peeking in the dining room where Damien is sitting with a pretty black haired girl, who is laughing at something my brother said. Damien is unfortunately still covered in teenage spots, his red hair needs washing more often, and he smells like a typical teenage boy that spends too much time on the PlayStation. The girl he’s with his polar opposite, with long silky black hair, not a single spot in sight and light makeup on. Hugo has a point, how the effing hell did Damien pull her?

  "I'll cover for you, go!" Hugo, the big kid, says from my back. I step back, and he pushes past me into the dining room, making a load of noise. I sigh, straightening up - it looks like this is happening whether I agreed to it or not. I walk to the other side of the corridor and pull the back door open, stepping out into the garden. I wrap my arms around myself as I walk down the small stone path. It’s lined with pretty flowers on either side, and a fence separates Michael’s longer stretch of garden, which opens into a paddock at the end. I undo the gate, purposefully leaving it open for Michael to follow me as I walk over to where he is napping next to a big barrow of veg. Michael looks up as I step on a branch, cracking it under my heel and waking him up.

  "K-Karma..." he yawns, slowly stretching out his legs. I’m one hundred percent sure Michael is very intelligent under all that fur and big eyed gaze he does. For one thing, he knows all our names, even though we didn’t teach him them. He walks around the house like a human, and mum even lets him sit on the sofa at t
imes. He’s capable of holding conversations, telling jokes, and calling people on their bullshit… which, I think, might come in handy if we’re trying to put Damien in his place.

  I’m pretty sure Michael is the only talking goat in the magical world; at least, I’ve never heard of talking animals before him. That’s why mum was so shocked when he first talked, telling us he wanted food. We all were. I remember Mum screaming and running out the garden, and dad bursting into laughter with the rest of us..

  "Mum wanted me to invite you to our family meal in about ten minutes," I tell Michael, who pulls his lips up so he kind of looks like he is smiling at me.

  "Liar," he replies, but he winks at me. Which is a pretty creepy thing to make me smile, but it does. Winking goats are awesome, and it’s this kind of interaction that, for better or worse, makes him feel… human. I turn around and jog back to the house, leaving the backdoor slightly open before making my way into the dining room. Dad opens the door for me as soon as I get to it, and he grins down at me before ruffling my hair.

  "How is my lovely Karma today?" he asks, holding the door open for me. Dad's black hair has lost its battle to the oncoming grey that has taken over, but that hasn’t stopped him from keeping his locks long. He usually ties his hair at the back of his head, which gives him an air of someone younger - or at least, someone young at heart. Dad has wrinkles, likely caused from all the stress we gave him over the years, but his eyes are as bright and cheerful as I've always known them to be. He has the ability to make you feel better no matter what, to always have the solution for a bad day, a failed exam, or a ruined outfit. I can't count how many times I've had my heart broken by some arsehole guy, only to have dad appear as if by magic, a hot chocolate in hand. One hug from him makes it all better for a little bit. He is the best kind of dad in the entire world.