by Kevin Hearne
Gallowgate Tate yielded seconds later, and anyone that had held on to their shite up to that point promptly lost it.
Georgy Orgy was not the only bookie who didn’t want to cough up the long-shot money when Nadia won. He and the others claimed Nadia must have cheated somehow. She had to beat up a couple of their bodyguards and slap away a pistol to convince them that, no, she was just a really good fighter and they’d better pay up before she stopped being polite.
Once we did get paid, we left the underground together, wary of anyone who might try to take us, but the spectators had learned not to mess with her. And that is how I met Nadia.
* * *
—
“Hold on, now, hold on. Ye cannae stop there just because I finished with the food.”
[We can take a break, though,] I replied.
“I need to know things, MacBharrais.”
[So do I. What is this thing we’re eating?]
“Chicken adobo, Filipino style. Soy sauce, vinegar, water, minced garlic, and whole peppercorns. And chicken, of course. Served over rice and with a pint of stolen beer to wash it down, which is always the best kind of beer.”
[Looks and smells good. What do you need to know?]
“How’d she become a battle seer? Are we going tae play any video games that Dhanya worked on? And did she really have herself painted on the side of a van?”
[We are not playing any video games, period. I suppose I can tell you the rest after we eat.]
“Wot, ye cannae shovel food in yer gob and type at the same time?”
[Feed me, damn it, please and thank you.]
For the record: Hobgoblin-made adobo is delightful, and stolen beer does taste better somehow than the kind ye pay for.
Nadia’s wizard van was parked on the street under a light, and it did not disappoint. Underneath the artwork it was one of those black work vans, the kind one sees everywhere and usually emblazoned with the logo of some plumber or construction contractor or flower-delivery service, except this one had the magnificent painted scene Dhanya had described earlier. The wizard figure riding a giant iguana—obviously Nadia, since the leather jacket and mohawk hairdo were unmistakable—was in the foreground, near the driver’s window. Her clenched fist in the air summoned eldritch energies from the sky. She looked over her mount’s head into the distance, where an enormous figure the size of a four-story tenement sat on a throne of aged cheddar or maybe red Leicester. In his right hand, dangling off the arm of the throne, he held a huge tumbler that must contain roughly the same amount of whisky as the liquid in an aboveground pool.
His left hand held a skewer, and the flailing bodies of men were indeed impaled and roasted crispy and ready to be eaten by Lhurnog, a large pseudo-amphibian humanoid with pale-green skin, yellow eyes, and the sort of knife-blade teeth one sees on anglerfish. He wore white robes with mystical symbols on them, but I checked to see if I recognized them and I did not. They were the sort of nonsense one sees in fantasy games and illustrations of this sort, and Lhurnog likewise seemed to be a marvel of the imagination more than anything else. Between Lhurnog and the goth wizard-on-a-lizard lay a field of fallen soldiers, the remains of some great battle, which provided some scale to the figures.
The scene was at once a relief and a mystery: Lhurnog was just some fantastical creation rather than anything real, but if Nadia wasn’t getting her extraordinary gifts from a demonic pact, where was she getting them from?
“Tell me about Lhurnog. Who is he?” I asked.
Nadia shrugged. “He’s made up, in’t he? Ye can lookit him and say, oh, nice, a toothy frog monster, or ye can lookit that the way fantasy monsters are supposed tae be looked at, and examine what’s he’s on about, and then ye see a figure who symbolizes white patriarchy, the wealthy elite, and excess. But he’s also the guy who will eat ye before ye can eat him. I like that part. He’s a killer because he has to be. He’s swimming with sharks.”
“That. Is. Excellent. Who’s the artist?”
“A friend from Australia whose parents were bastards and actually named her Sheila. She hates the jokes so she goes by Ozzy Peach, which I don’t think is much of an improvement, but whatever lubes her tube, eh? She’s doing book covers n’ that now. Paintings for this game called Magic: The Gathering.”
“Oh, aye, I’ve heard of that.”
“Ye have?”
“I cannae play it well, but I like fantasy art. Especially anything to do with the Fae. May I see the other side?”
“Of course.”
I walked around, and the passenger side of the van was a portrait of Nadia from the waist up, her right arm extended to the side and holding a straight razor, flat of the blade facing the viewer. Her arm pointed to the cab of the van, and above it was the word LIVING in block letters, and beneath it was ON THE EDGE. Her mohawk was tilted slightly to the rear of the vehicle, as if windblown by the movement of the van in operation. And her left hand, of course, was flicking the V, telling everyone to piss off, and her lip was curled in a sneer of disdain.
“That’s pure brilliance,” I gushed. “Do ye own a straight razor?”
“Hell yeah. Only part of me that’s straight.”
Dhanya sniggered at this.
“So, hey, Al,” Nadia said, “I know that an invitation tae get intae a van is to be avoided at all costs, so I’m no gonnay do that. What I’m gonnay do is open the door and walk down the block so ye can look inside and see I wasnae lying. There really is a shrine in there to Lhurnog, and we leave him whisky and cheese. Melt the cheese intae fondue.”
“Awright. So it’s like worshipping a god ye made up?”
“Right. Because let’s be real, Al: All the gods are made up. The rituals we practice are more important to us than the actual deities, in’t they? Gods never do shite as far as I can tell. But rituals and ceremony are powerful things to us. They get things done.”
She was half right, but it wasn’t the time to provide the information she was missing. She unlocked the van and opened the back doors, then hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “We’re gonnay have a smoke over there. Take yer time, but be careful yer brain disnae explode.”
They walked away and I hauled myself up into the van. The interior was pure genius. The walls were draped in red velvet, and the ceiling was a tapestry replica I didn’t recognize, featuring unicorns disemboweling men. A narrow black love seat on the right faced a custom shrine to Lhurnog on the left, which contained an altar with a triptych on top done in the style of Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, except that all the small human figures were Nadia in various goth outfits. It was at once the epitome of narcissistic excess and the ultimate satire and tribute. All these little versions of Nadia in states of pain, rapture, fear, and ecstasy, all for the glory of Lhurnog, who sat high in the center on his cheese throne with a whisky bottle in one hand and a tumbler in the other. He took his dram neat, I noticed. The altar was a sort of cabinet done in the shabby-chic style, whitewashed with some paint artfully sanded away in places to reveal a pale-blue layer underneath.
To either side of the altar, custom metal shelves had been bolted to the van walls through the velvet, thin steel towers with four slots each. On the bottom shelf were speakers. The next two featured raised rubber bases and brackets to secure bottles of whisky. They were designed so that the whisky could be displayed and appreciated but not tip over or break while the van was in motion, and she had bottles from Islay, Speyside, Highlands, and Lowlands available.
The top shelves contained a collection of high-end action figures from movies and comics—also fastened somehow, no doubt. I recognized Neo and Morpheus from The Matrix, Storm from X-Men—the one with the mohawk—and the others I wasn’t sure about. But it was clear that Nadia knew what she liked, and she had the imagination and the personal courage to surround herself unapologetically with that which amused her
.
There was a small sign—like a nameplate on an office desk but longer and crafted with custom sepia-toned calligraphy—resting on top of the altar: WHISKY AND CHEESE FOR THE GOB OF LHURNOG. And in front of that there was a crystal rocks glass, set in a secure base, and a small fondue set next to it with a porcelain bowl hovering over a votive candle. Both containers were empty, however. I knew where the whisky was, though I noted all the display bottles were still sealed and unopened. Where did she keep the cheese?
It was in the cupboard underneath the altar. There was an ice chest inside that contained small cubes of cheddar in a zipped plastic bag. There was also an assortment of sex toys next to the ice chest, which I was fairly certain I wasn’t supposed to see. I decided right then that I wouldn’t be sitting on the love seat.
Mounted on the wall above and around the love seat were shallow boxes covered with glass, as if they were museum pieces, because they contained actual museum pieces one might see in ancient weapons galleries. She had a khukuri knife, a katana and wakizashi, a medieval bastard sword, a kindjal, and a gladius. She may not have exhibited any disciplined martial-arts skills in the pit, but she certainly appreciated them and their history.
A glance forward confirmed that the cabin was upholstered in black leather and the finest of everything. She really had sunk a lot of money into this vehicle. It was undeniably the sweetest of rides.
I stepped out, shaking my head in wonder, and closed the doors, walking to the corner to join Nadia and Dhanya, puffing away on clove cigarettes. Ah, youth.
“So whatcha think?” Nadia said as I approached, chucking her chin at me.
“That van is absolutely mad in the best possible way. I love it.”
“Ha. Excellent. Fancy a puff?”
“Oh, no, thank you. In my youth I would have joined you, but in my age I am vain about my white mustache, and tobacco would stain it yellow.”
Nadia nodded and flashed a wry grin at me. “I get it. I am certainly not one to question anyone else’s vanities.”
“You still open tae having a cup of tea?” I asked.
“Sure. Tchai Ovna in thirty minutes?”
“Aye. See ye there.”
A late-night pot would not go amiss. And the atmosphere at Tchai Ovna encouraged open minds. Not that I thought Nadia’s was closed. Still, revealing the truth of the world is not to be undertaken in a sports bar. For I intended to reveal it to her. And I needed to convince her sooner rather than later, before my curse triggered.
Once we met and we had pots of chai in front of us, sitting in front of the fireplace opposite one another, Dhanya asked me the question I knew was coming: “So what d’ye do, Al, when ye’re no crashing pit fights in yer cashmere?”
“I’m a printer. I own and operate MacBharrais Printing and Binding on High Street.”
Nadia frowned. “That’s it?”
“Of course that’s not it. It’s the day job. It’s the cover. It’s the mask I wear for the world, just like ye wear yer accounting-student mask to hide the pit fighting.”
Her face relaxed as she poured herself a cup. “I’ve got tae say, Al, that’s a fucking relief. I thought ye were gonnay bore me for a second there.”
“Information control is the name of the game. It is the game. Some people think it’s money, but it’s no money at all. Information is what gets ye money.”
“Attaboy, Al,” Nadia said. “Ye keep talkin’ like that and I’ll be interested.”
“Awright, how’s this? I don’t think ye won tonight because ye’re a better fighter. I think ye won because ye knew something your opponents didnae.”
Nadia and Dhanya both froze, their eyes locked on me. When Nadia spoke, her voice was low. “What do ye think I knew about my opponents, Al?”
“Oh, I have no idea. That is your secret to share or not as ye please, and I will no be offended if ye wish to keep it to yerself. But information control is how people with power keep it. And gaining access to information is how people with no power get power. Would ye agree?”
Nadia relaxed and sat back with her cup of tea, peering at me over the rim. “I would. Do go on.”
“I have access to information known by only five people in the world. I’m no gonnay share that information with ye, but I will share the existence of it with ye. If ye’re willing to perform a little experiment here.”
“Maybe. What is it?”
“Ye will need to humor me a bit. Get up and try to lift the couch from Dhanya’s end. With Dhanya on it. Do the best ye can, and then the knowledge comes after.”
When Dhanya saw Nadia put her cup down on the table in front of us, she said, “Ye better no make me spill ma tea.”
It was the equivalent of deadlifting a couple of hundred pounds from a very awkward position, and Nadia couldn’t manage to get it airborne more than a smidge, effectively shoving it a tiny bit but no more. She gasped, defeated, and scowled at the couch and its occupant. Dhanya stared severely at Nadia.
“Nadia, I love fat people and I love ye too, but so help me, if ye say I’m fat right now because ye couldnae lift this couch with yer wee noodle arms, I will go outside and find a huge fucking spider and throw it at yer face.”
Nadia’s scowl evaporated as she laughed at Dhanya, and I grinned too. I withdrew a sealed Sigil of Muscular Brawn from my coat and gave it to Nadia. “This is information you didnae have until now. When ye’re ready, break the seal and look at the symbol underneath the flap and wait a couple of seconds. Then try lifting the couch again. Dhanya, I recommend putting yer tea down beforehand.”
They stared at me slackjawed for a few moments, then their eyes traveled around to see if anyone else had heard this. We were alone except for the employees and some people murmuring in the other room. It was late.
Dhanya shrugged, put her tea down on the table, and leaned back. “Let’s do this.”
“Right.” Nadia popped the seal and flicked open the card, revealing the sigil to her eyes. It hacked her nervous and limbic system, infused her temporarily with the strength of a Druid, as Brighid intended, and she shuddered as the power coursed through her. It can have that effect the first few times.
She grasped the bottom of the couch again, thinking it would give her the same resistance as before but discovering as she lifted that, no, it was light as a waffle, and she sent Dhanya tumbling with a whoop as she lifted the end of the couch to her chest before realizing that she needed to stop.
“Oh! Shite. I’m sorry! For fuck’s sake!” She set the couch down and Dhanya clambered back to a sitting position, cursing the whole while.
“Invigorating, eh?” I said. “Information is powerful stuff.”
“What the hell did ye do tae me?” Nadia stared at her hands as if they held the answer.
“I gave ye information.”
“Ye mean magic?”
I shrugged. “Call it magic or call it science. It’s all information.”
She curled her hands into fists and looked back at the stone hearth. “If I punch that chimney right now, will I make a dent?”
“Yes. Ye will also shatter most of the bones in your hand. I advise against it.”
“How long does this last?”
“Not long. Another few minutes and ye’ll be back to normal.”
“Side effects?”
“None, apart from losing the strength ye currently have.”
“Holy shite, Al, this is so much better than printing.”
“And beating up people bigger than you is much better than accounting. Information, ye see. I can do things that border on the miraculous. But I must control that information, just like ye control the information you have.”
Nadia dropped her hands to her sides. “So is that what ye want? I’ll show ye mine if ye show me yours?”
“Aye.”
“But my
shite is no believable.”
“And mine is? Ye wouldnae believe what just happened if I told ye, aye? There’s a lot more where that came from. But I have seen what ye can do. So cough it up. I’m not yer average old man.”
Nadia exchanged glances with Dhanya. They’d been together for a year at that point and they still are, wedded in all but name, since Nadia’s family is the socially conservative kind.
Dhanya shrugged one shoulder. “It’s up to you, love.”
Nadia sighed and passed behind the couch and took her seat, retrieving her teacup and taking a long sip. I sat back and enjoyed my own, content to wait while she thought it through.
“Okay, fuck it. Let’s see how this goes. Truth is, Al, I’m a demigoddess. Maybe.”
My eyebrows rose, because that seemed to contradict her earlier statement that the gods were entirely made up, but it was also—to me, anyway—a plausible explanation that fit the facts of her abilities.
“Twenty-two years ago, ma parents were vacationing in India, visiting long-lost family and that, and…well, look: Ye know that Hindu tradition is littered with demigods, right?”
“Aye.”
“Well, the demigods in Hindu tradition were humans that became gods, not the children of gods and humans like ye have in western tradition.”
“Right.”
“As such, while they were human, they procreated. Had children. But once they became gods, they blessed their children with this and that, good health or good fortune or whatever, and some of those traits got passed down. While she was on holiday in India, ma mum, bless her dark and conservative but secretly horny heart, hooked up with a man who was no her husband and who was descended from a demigod.”
