“What, sir?” Gregory asks. “Are you talking to me?”
“I expect your resignation letter on my desk this afternoon.” Stoker walks off, fully aware that Gregory’s not the type of guy that takes kindly to being backed into a corner, but Stoker doesn’t want a person like him on his team. If Stoker’s secrets come out, he’ll deal with them then and there.
“Sir! Is this because I stopped you from being arrested?” Gregory scrambles to Stoker’s side. “I know you were close to the people who lived in that township, but what happened there couldn’t have been predicted by anyone. It’s an unlikely target, no infrastructure, minimal economic impact. Whoever has done this, they’re aiming for the perfect act of terrorism. One that says that no place is safe. One that will turn South Africa’s people against one another. We need you here, sir, battling toward normalcy. We need you to be the face for the Eastern Cape, to let people know that it’s safe to travel, to go to work, to visit friends and family, to live a life not dominated by fear. They need to know that we’re going to catch who’s done this, sir.”
“Perfect. So now we’re going to pretend that our little dik-dik situation didn’t happen.”
“Councilman Stoker, lives were lost. Thousands of lives. Whatever’s wrong, I need you to snap out of it.”
Gregory’s right. Whatever petty differences they have, they can wait. People need reassurances, and these few moments after this tragedy shouldn’t be wasted. “Call the other heads together for an emergency meeting,” Stoker says. “And find us someone who’s abreast of this whole situation. We’ve got a nation to save.”
“I’m on it, sir!” Gregory says.
Stoker has to admit, Gregory is good in an emergency situation. So maybe he’s a little overambitious, but like Stoker, he really does want what’s best for the people of the Eastern Cape. Which makes Stoker wonder if the person he’s really angry with is himself. He’d lost control in that bathroom, had acted on impulse without thinking through the consequences, then to make matters worse, he’d brought his mother in to clean up his mess.
He made a mistake, Stoker admits to himself. Several bad ones, in fact, but it’s not too late to seek forgiveness for his sins. And if Gregory can forgive him, maybe Stoker can start to forgive himself.
“Mr. Mbende!” Stoker calls out.
Gregory stops and turns back. “Sir?”
“I know we both messed up. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but I hope that we can work past this. And whatever my mother did, said, I don’t want you to worry about it. I’ll talk to her tonight, tell her everything’s okay between us. Everything’s okay, right?”
Gregory steps up, examines Stoker closely, then says, “Sir, I really don’t want to ask this, but are you inebriated?” Gregory clears his throat. “Your eyes are all glazed over and you’re not making any sense whatsoever.”
Stoker almost denies it, but then remembers the Valium coursing through his veins. He shakes it off. “I’ll be fine. Just get the heads together, okay?” Stoker lets his head loll forward. “And I’m sorry about the bump.”
“Bump?”
“On the back of your head.”
Gregory rubs the spot, tenderly. “Oh, yeah. That. Darndest thing, woke up Saturday morning with a knot the size of a fist. I can’t even remember how it got there. Friday was such a blur. One minute, I’m leaving the office, the next I’m tucked in bed with a killer headache.”
Stoker looks deeply into Gregory’s eyes. “You aren’t faking, are you? You really don’t remember?”
Gregory shakes his head. “Okay, one of us is losing his mind, and given the current circumstances, we really don’t have the luxury to figure out which one of us it is. So let’s get done what needs to get done, all right?” Mbende pats Stoker on the shoulder, then runs off.
Stoker stands there, feeling the muscles in his face cycling through shock, disbelief, sorrow, and in that order. His mother had a hand in this, no doubt. Nausea creeps back up into his gut. Murder, he could deal with. Simple, savage. Permanent. But Stoker gets the distinct feeling that his mother is capable of something much more sinister, and it scares him. It scares him a lot.
Chapter 18
Sydney
Sydney cusses her piece-of-crap moped. It finally died, right when she needs it the most. Now she’s stranded out in the middle of nowhere, an hour outside of Port Elizabeth in the brush. She eyes the narrow stretch of road in both directions, not a soul to be seen, just browning veld to either side, littered with a flock of white plastic sacks tossed to the winds by careless townspeople.
She’s never felt so useless, not even enough power within her to fly a few dozen kilometers to the Addisen township. She’d seen the destruction on the television at the salon, felt the tremors. Terrorists, the newscasters had said, but Sydney knows better. She’d destroyed a town or two in her prime, but never anything near this scale. The girl is strong, stronger than Sydney anticipated. But strength alone does not a demigoddess make. There’s also experience and guile, and Sydney’s never lacking in that department.
She walks nearly thirty minutes before an old bakkie passes her, its windows caked with dirt and its paint faded to the dullest of reds. She waves and it grinds to a halt, veering halfway onto the dusty shoulder. Sydney makes a run for it before the driver changes his mind. She pulls the door open and climbs halfway up into the cab.
“Heya there,” the man says, tipping his straw hat. His skin is red and rough from a lifetime spent tilling earth. “Looking for a lift?”
“Thanks for stopping,” says Sydney, putting on her best sorrowful face. “My moped broke down a ways back. I thought I’d be stuck out here forever.”
“No problem. Usually don’t pick up hitchhikers around here, but I figure we could all try to be a little more humane after what happened today and all. It’s a damn shame.”
“I’m headed that way actually. My father, he lives there.” Sydney even manages an actual tear.
“Ag, no, didn’t you hear? They’re saying there aren’t any survivors.”
“My father, he’s tough.” Immortal might be a better word, but she’s still angling for a ride. Don’t want to scare him off just yet.
“Hey, it’s a little out of my way, but I don’t mind. Why don’t you hop on in? You don’t look much like a monster, or anything.” He flashes her a warm smile, deep creases at his eyes. He’s got the sort of face that’s built for kindness. “I’m Kobus Goosen,” he says, extending a hand.
“Courtney. Courtney Ngoto,” Sydney says. Sydney Mazwai is wanted for questioning in the deaths of six men found clogging up the garbage chute in her old apartment building, so she has to keep that persona under wraps for now. Soon, though, there won’t be a police force on this whole entire planet able to stop her. She hops into the seat, buckles in, and turns to the horizon, twelve plumes of smoke rising like architectural columns up into the sky. Like the Parthenon, Sydney thinks with more than a little disdain. The Greeks, they knew how to treat their goddesses.
The old Isuzu’s got lousy suspension, still runs on gas, and is heavily reliant upon a vast collection of rugby union bumper stickers to keep the truck all in one piece, but it’s a whole hell of a lot better than walking. Sydney makes idle chitchat until they’re nearly to the township. Kobus seems like a nice guy. A wife, three kids. Pays his farmhands a decent wage and tells a good yarn. If things were different, she would thank him for the ride, offer him a few rand for his trouble, which of course he’d refuse. She’d shake his hard, calloused hand once more and they’d make empty promises that they should keep in touch, maybe stop by to have dinner with his family should she ever be in the area again. She’d feign that she’d be delighted, and he’d wish her luck finding her father, his eyes full of actual sorrow. Then they’d part ways, and after a day or so, they’d forget all about each other, swept back up into the grind of their respective daily lives.
But things aren’t different. They’re just the same as they’ve always been.
She’s weak and needs all the strength she can get to face this new student of Mr. Tau’s. Sydney doesn’t plan on being replaced so easily. She’s not giving up without a fight.
So Sydney draws up from that empty spot within her. A reflux of ire bulges through her veins. The pads of her fingertips break, giving way to glossy black talons as long and sharp as daggers. She becomes a monster more gruesome than Kobus could have ever dreamt up. His fear is pure, wholesome, sticks to her ribs like a big bowl of mielie pap on a cold day. Then she grants his last prayer before she takes his life and sends feelings of love deep into the hearts of his wife and daughters back home.
Sydney cringes as she sees the carnage firsthand. She’d been ready for the sheer devastation, but nothing could have prepared her for the smell, like Death had hosted a barbecue and had invited thirty-seven thousand of his closest friends. She uses half her reserves to push the images and credentials of a first responder into the heads of the police and paramedics on the scene as they search for survivors among the rubble. Sydney joins them, lifting up sheets of metal, sometimes finding a piece of charred hand or leg, but even those are few and far between. Cadaver dogs run in circles, whimpering. Ire lingers in this place, echoes of fear taunting Sydney like she’d arrived at a free buffet two minutes past closing.
When her ears start to tingle, she knows she’s getting close. It’s been decades since she’d been this close to another demigod. They’re a territorial bunch. But Sydney has to admit, she’s excited to be among one of her own, even if it’s only long enough to kill her. These humans, they’re so insignificant, bugs on a windshield in the grand scheme of things, yet they think the world will come crashing down if they aren’t there to support it.
There . . . she sees a leg jutting from underneath a strip of tin siding. Sydney lifts it gently, revealing a charred body, skin like burnt islands adrift on a sea of coagulated blood. She’s alive, barely. Her eyes flicker open, deep red with only the slightest hint of golden irises. Sydney gasps. Muddied tears streak across the girl’s face and down onto the scorched earth.
Sydney’s got this one chance. She draws all that’s left of her power and concentrates on a killing blow. Her palm bubbles like napalm, enough energy to demolish a city block. At point-blank range and with the girl defenseless, Sydney’s limited ire might be enough. Sydney presses her palm to the girl’s temple before doubt sets in. The child is dangerous, no matter how frail she looks on the outside. She has to try. But before Sydney can deal the killing blow, footsteps clatter behind her.
“Survivor!” someone shouts out. In an instant, Sydney’s surrounded by a dozen people, paramedics checking the girl’s vitals, clergy praying to greater gods, media bots broadcasting a ray of hope to the entire nation. Sydney can’t allow that, just as she can’t allow this girl out of her sight. She wedges her way back into the crowd and sticks close as they delicately load the girl onto a stretcher. Dirt and human ashes stir as a Medevac helicopter swoops in. Sydney makes a move, dredging up a dust storm around her and the girl. Paramedics scream for the helicopter to back off. Sydney grabs the girl into her arms, flexes her wings, then shoots into the air, fast and smiling as the wind licks at her face. She’s spent after a kilometer, but they’re alone, far enough away where no one will disturb her again.
Her insides are rubbed raw as she tries to draw ire again. Sydney pitches forward, barely able to catch her breath. She eyes a large, flat rock and for a brief delusional moment, considers bashing the girl’s head in the good old-fashioned way. But who is she kidding? Even in this state, the girl’s got more power in her little finger than Sydney’s got in her whole body. What’s a rock going to do to a girl who survived a dozen meteors falling from the sky?
Patience is a virtue. Soon enough, Sydney will have the power to make her move, to strike when the time is right. Until then, she’ll need to keep the girl close, away from people, away from believers.
“Sweetheart, you’re going to be okay,” Sydney says, stroking the girl’s cheek, already starting to scab over. “You’re with family now.”
Chapter 19
Muzi
It’s a damn shame, is what it is, but Muzi doesn’t expect much more from Elkin’s dad—part workaholic, part drunk, total asshole. He’s mumbling to himself, nearly passed out on the couch, when he’s supposed to be driving them to their rugby match across town. Muzi’s nervous enough as it is. It’s his first game back since his circumcision, and he’s pretty sure two weeks isn’t enough time to heal, but he’s their star pivot, a solid arm to pass to either side of the field. They can’t afford to lose any more matches if they plan on making it into tournament play this season.
“Come on. Papa Fuzz can take us. I swear, he’ll be on his best behavior.” Muzi cups his crotch and gingerly gives it a lift. “He owes me. Big-time.”
Elkin curls his lip. “My mom should be home any minute. You can go if you want.”
“It’s not like Papa Fuzz hates you.”
“It’s not like he doesn’t. I’m the only one who calls him on his bullshit, and he resents me for that. You can’t say two words to him without him suddenly being a damned expert on everything! Everything!”
“He’s not that bad,” Muzi says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
“You tell him how you just got back from a nice hike in the woods, he tells you about how he once climbed a mountain, barefoot and blindfolded, with wild dogs chasing him the whole way.”
Muzi shrugs. “So he likes to embellish the truth a bit. I think it’s endearing.”
“He’s so into his Xhosa culture, yet he gave you a Zulu name . . .”
“He named me after the man who saved his life in a township fire.”
“I’ve heard it before. Biggest fire in the province’s history. So hot, it burned the soles off his shoes and the hair off his head. Have you ever met this man?” Elkin says, his brow pulled tight.
“No, but—”
“Whatever, bru. You look at him and see no faults.”
“Ha, if I had a rand for every time Papa Fuzz said the exact same thing about you.” Muzi furrows his brow and punches Elkin in the shoulder.
Elkin winces and touches his arm tenderly.
“What? You turning into a cake or something?” Muzi says, giving Elkin another tap on the arm. “Or maybe I just don’t know my own strength.”
“Eina! Okay. It’s nothing. Just tweaked it last practice. It’s nothing.”
But Muzi’s heard this lie before, Elkin covering up for a father who didn’t deserve to have him as a son. Muzi’s fists ball up tight, nails digging into his palms. He wants to tell Elkin that he knows what happened with that black eye. The memory is so sharp that his own eye socket starts to ache. His mouth opens, but the words refuse to come out. How could he even begin to explain?
Elkin leans over the back of the couch and flicks his father in the ear. His father moans incoherently, the lager so strong on his breath that Muzi can smell it from where he’s standing. It’s bad enough Elkin has to deal with this shit on a daily basis. Maybe he can’t say anything, but no way is Muzi going to let him suffer through it alone.
“I’m staying,” Muzi says. “As long as it takes. Besides, we’ve still got a chance of making it on time the way your mom drives.”
“Ja,” Elkin says with a mild chuckle.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea to pass the time.” Muzi takes a vial of godsend out of his alphie’s secured compartment and snorts a small dab before Elkin can object.
“Shit, Muzi. Show up to the match late and gaffed, why don’t you?” There’s real anger in Elkin’s voice, a baritone tremor that echoes through Muzi’s chest. Sure Elkin likes to blaze up, probably more than what’s good for him, but he never lets it interfere with rugby. He’s got detoxing down to a science. He’s too good to get caught. Maybe even good enough to get a university scholarship.
“Just a little parlor trick. I’ll be fine,” Muzi says, laying a hand on Elkin’s chest. This will be goo
d. For the both of them. “Mr. Rathers,” Muzi says in a commanding voice. “Stand up.”
Elkin’s shit-faced father stands at attention with the grace of a drunken marionette. Elkin’s eyebrows converge into a sharp scowl. “What are you doing?”
“He’s my puppet. He’ll do anything I tell him. Anything.”
Elkin grabs Muzi’s arm. “Stop it. He’s going to be furious.”
“He won’t remember a thing. Not unless I want him to. Mr. Rathers, cluck like a chicken.”
And Mr. Rathers does an impressive imitation of a chicken, flapping his wings and clucking and pecking at nonexistent feed.
“Hayibo!” Elkin exclaims, his jaw dropped. “You taking a hypnotics class I don’t know about?”
Muzi shrugs nonchalantly. “I can control people’s minds when I’m on the godsend.”
“Bladdy sick.” Elkin licks his lips. “Hey, can you make him slam his shin into the coffee table?”
“Ja, my pleasure,” Muzi says, and a quick command makes it so; a pyramid of Castle Lager cans crashes, aluminum clinking and clanking against the black lacquer tabletop. They laugh as Elkin’s father marches around the room, running into furniture and stubbing his toe until Elkin’s laughter turns timid, then disappears.
“That’s enough,” he says.
“Come on. A little more.” After what he’s done to you, Muzi almost adds, but then he’ll have to tell Elkin about the visions, about how he made him forget. Those visions, they’re becoming indistinguishable from his own memories, sharp like knives every time his thoughts pass over them. Muzi has to remind himself that he’s not the one seeking vengeance, and respects Elkin’s request. “Sorry,” he says. “Got a little carried away. Mr. Rathers, have a seat. You won’t remember any of this happening. You just had a clumsy evening after too many drinks.”
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