The Prey of Gods

by Nicky Drayden

  “Thank you,” Muzi manages, though his mind is racing so fast now, he doesn’t know what else to do, so he says “Thank you” again, before disconnecting.

  “Holy fuck!” Elkin screams. “Holy fucking fuck! VIP passes. Did you hear that? We get to meet her!”

  Muzi grins. “Who’s this we? They’re my tickets.” He ducks as Elkin flings a pillow at his face. “Did you do this?”

  “No. Didn’t even get close to cracking their encryption. What about you? Did you mind munch somebody or something?”

  Muzi shakes his head, then plops down onto the floor and draws his knees to his chest. He wants to laugh, to yell, to trade obscenities with Elkin, but those dark memories, they linger, always there, suffocating him. Death, anger, rage, hopelessness. They surge through his heart, overwhelm him with emotion, and steal away this moment of bliss. He doesn’t fight the tears this time.

  “Pussy alert!” Elkin screams, then punches him in the shoulder.

  “Leave me alone.” Muzi buries his face into his knees. His insides ache so bad, not one big pain, but a million little cuts, each enough to make him sick to his stomach.

  But Elkin, he doesn’t know when to quit. He gets right up close, not even a breath away. “Oh, I get it. It’s that time of the month? You want me to go steal some tampons from my mom?”

  The cuts swarm in Muzi’s stomach, a tornado of rage. All at once they surge forth, the tremor inside him flashing through his bones, anchoring down and through the floor. The whole room trembles, framed rugby posters come crashing down from the walls, a lamp overturns, a crack rises up from the floorboard and continues until it reaches the ceiling. “I said leave me the fuck alone!” Muzi’s voice booms. Elkin scrambles backward, cowering in the empty corner where his alphie used to dock.

  “Okay,” Elkin says in a voice so tiny and pathetic.

  Muzi exhales, then lets his head drift to his knees. He needs to grieve—for a hamster crushed by carelessness, for a young life lost in a bathtub, for the secret past of a poacher thought left forever behind, for another fifty-some odd incidences of cruelty and misfortune that befell teammates and strangers. And for his friend, who he keeps hurting, huddled in the corner.

  He grieves for each one, hoping to forget, knowing he will not.

  Chapter 30

  Stoker

  Stoker wakes with the mother of all headaches, like someone had jammed an electric mixer up his nostrils and had given his brain a good frappe. He sits up slowly, brings his hands to his face, and sighs as he tries to piece his memories back together. Damn. That terrorist attack. He must have worn himself out worrying about the ramifications. Stoker’s got meetings to schedule, people’s minds to calm. No rest for the weary.

  He crosses his fingers, cracks his knuckles, then . . . what the?

  His nails are all chewed down, ragged. Ugly. But Stoker doesn’t chew his nails. Filthy habit, not to mention all the money he spends on mani/pedis. Oh, hell no. He’s not going to leave the house looking like this, not even if there is a national emergency.

  Stoker slips out of bed, gives himself a good head-to-toe stretch, then pads quietly across the cool tiles of his bathroom floor. He pulls out his leather toiletry case, digs around for nail clippers or a file, but they’re missing. Curious. It’s not like him to misplace anything. But he’s got another case that he keeps hidden from prying eyes. He goes to the back of his closet, and from an inconspicuous black trunk, he pulls out his makeup kit, sets it on top of his vanity, then opens it up.

  Stoker has a panic attack when he sees that it’s nearly empty. There are just a couple eye shadows and lipsticks, and five nail polishes . . . horrible shades, nothing he’d ever be caught dead in. He lines them up, labels facing out.

  The nail polish:

  All for Naught, a chalky, nearly transparent mauve, vaguely reminiscent of the color of his great-grandmother’s skin

  Remember, a bright neon orange that’s so awful, it gives him an itch in the back of his brain

  Concert Tee, a smoky black a brooder would love

  Just a Rehearsal, a sickening pink that tests his gag reflex

  Bring the Funk, a purple that couldn’t possibly exist in nature

  The eye shadows:

  Out to Get You, cherry red with silver glitter

  Mother of Pearl, a classic, but no less tacky

  The lipsticks:

  Sunday Drive, an offensive shade of mauve

  Like a Bat Out of Hell, which is actually not that bad, maybe a little more on the neutral side than he’d like, but pretty enough

  Stoker bites his lip as he looks them over. There’s also a receipt in the makeup box, time-stamped from yesterday. Only he doesn’t remember buying this stuff yesterday. Actually, he doesn’t remember much from yesterday at all. But it’s his signature at the bottom for sure—well, Felicity Lyons’s signature, anyway, with big swirling atrocious cursive letters. Only he’d paid in cash. Strange. Perhaps this is some sort of game—a secret message meant for his eyes only. What else could have been so important that he’d junk all his favorite makeup for this crap?

  Stoker looks at the lipsticks again, then reads the labels together. Sunday Drive Like a Bat Out of Hell . . . okay, so Sunday he’s supposed to drive like a bat out of hell? Sunday. That’s today. But where? And why?

  He goes to the eye shadows, switches them around. Mother of Pearl Out to Get You. Well, that’s a good enough of a why if he ever saw one. His mother, Pearl, is out to get him. Doesn’t surprise him one bit, actually. What if she were the one screwing around with his memory? Maybe she’d conked him one on the head, made him forget. Stoker feels around on his scalp for a sore spot, but doesn’t find one. Hmmm . . .

  And then to the nail polishes. It takes a little longer to put these together, swapping labels back and forth until he’s reasonably satisfied with the result: Remember Bring the Funk Concert Tee All for Naught Just a Rehearsal.

  Stoker chews on that a little longer. Concert Tee stands out. Naught Just a Rehearsal. The only concert Stoker knows about this Sunday is Riya Natrajan’s concert. Maybe he’s supposed to be there. Maybe he’s supposed to get there like a bat out of hell. Maybe that’s what his mother doesn’t want him to remember.

  His alpha bot rings. Speak of the devil.

  “Hello, Ma. It’s so wonderful to see your smiling face this lovely Sunday morning,” Stoker says, laying it on thick. Whatever it is that he knows, he’s still not sure, but he sure doesn’t want her to know about it.

  “Hello, dear. I’m glad you’re up,” she says, giving Stoker a quick glance before turning her attention back to trimming one of the topiaries in her prize-winning garden. “I’m just calling to see if you’d grace me with your presence at dinner this evening. I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “Oh, Mother, I’d love to.” He needs an excuse. Quick. “But I just woke up with this killer headache. Too many long nights working on this terrorist fallout, I guess. Can I call you around lunchtime and let you know if I’m feeling any better?”

  “A headache. Son, let me come over. I’ll make your favorite, pap en vleis.”

  “And your homemade chakalaka?” Stoker says, momentarily forgetting himself in his craving for that spicy relish made with heirloom tomatoes from her garden and so much garlic that he could smell it seeping through his pores the next day. “I mean, that’s not necessary.” Last thing he needs is her coming over here. “You know what? I’ll just take a couple aspirin and drag myself over to your place. Would you like me to bring anything?”

  “Just your smiling face,” she says.

  “Sounds good. Maybe we can talk some about my premier candidacy.”

  “Oh, honey, have you decided to declare your interest?” Her face lights up as he says this, and she turns her attention fully to him.

  “I’m leaning that way.”

  “I’ll invite Ted Stevenson over for dessert then. We’ll start crunching some numbers. Never too early
to start preparing for these things!”

  “What time should I be by?”

  “Six thirty sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?”

  “My calendar is clear. Six thirty it is. Love you, Mom.” Stoker leans forward and gives the alpha bot’s camera a faux kiss.

  He’s got to get out of here, now. To Port Elizabeth for Riya Natrajan’s concert. And he has to bring the funk. Well, that could only mean one thing. Felicity Lyons is in demand, and here he is without a single thing to wear. He’ll drive like mad out of town, and once he’s safely in Port Elizabeth, he should have plenty of time for a pit stop. He’s heard a lot of good things about their Valle Ratalle, high fashion even if it is off the rack. And if he doesn’t eat a thing the rest of the day, he just might be able to squeeze himself into a size eight dress.

  Chapter 31

  Riya Natrajan

  After all these years, Riya Natrajan has never gotten used to being a pincushion. She’s got a makeup artist accurate enough to put eyeliner on a rabid chinchilla. She’s got a hairstylist who can lay extensions with more urgency than a sapper laying land mines, and she’s got two fashionistas who can get her breasts to defy gravity even in the scantest of costumes. And right now, they’ve all got their hands on her, painting and pinning and poking and pulling and plucking.

  There’s a knock on her dressing room door. Barely a knock. More like an apology. It cracks open and Adam Patel’s face peeks in. Oh, he wants something. It’s not like him to be timid, especially an hour from showtime.

  “Bad news?” she says through parted lips as bright red lipstick is brushed on.

  “Not exactly. It’s just that we’ve got a few VIP stragglers who were hoping to meet you.”

  “The autograph session was an hour ago, Adam.”

  “I know, but there’s only a handful of them.”

  “Then there’s only a handful of people you’ll have to disappoint. You know this is my me time. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t wake up looking this beautiful.”

  Adam steps fully into the room, walking tenderly as he comes closer, his right arm in a sling. Wisely, he stays out of striking distance. A fake gimp isn’t enough to shame her into submission.

  “Have a heart, Riya. Just this once.”

  “I’d claw yours right out of your chest if I didn’t just get these acrylics glued on.”

  He dares to move next to her and lowers his voice, though there’s really no privacy when someone’s reaching up your skirt to straighten out the layers of frill beneath. “Come on,” he says. “It’ll take three minutes max. Certainly you could spare that from your regimen, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve seen you first thing in the morning. You do wake up looking this beautiful.”

  “Lay it on any thicker, and I might suffocate,” Riya Natrajan snarls.

  “Would a guilt trip suffice?” Adam says, raising his sling.

  “It’s just a bad sprain,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’d think I’d broken your back or something. You probably don’t even need to wear that thing.”

  He smirks. “Go out there and I’ll take it off.”

  “Damn it, Adam!” She stands up, and her assistants buzz off like flies. She yanks the rollers out of her hair, gives her skirt a shake, then goes out into the hallway. There are a few kids and adults with them, eyes brimming with excitement.

  “Riya! Riya!” They scream, surging forth, but Riya Natrajan fixes them with a smoldering stare.

  “Here’s how it’s going to work,” she says, looking each of them square in the eye. “Have your autograph books or whatever you want me to sign displayed. Backs to the wall. No touching. No stupid questions. Got it?”

  Their heads nod, silly smiles stretched tightly across their faces.

  She holds her hand out and Adam places a silver Sharpie in it. She steps forward and signs each beloved object with a giant, completely illegible R-squiggle N-squiggle: two posters, the box of her new Riya! doll with interchangeable hairstyles, three commemorative and ridiculously overpriced concert program booklets, and the ivory handle of an antique brush—sadly not the strangest thing she’d been asked to autograph this evening. Then there’s this sleeve of a black concert tee, currently being worn by a rather homely-looking preteen. Riya Natrajan jerks the girl’s elbow to get a better angle on the sleeve, but as she does, the scent of pain surges through her, unsettlingly familiar and potent enough to set a chill in her teeth.

  “Ow,” the little girl whispers in the politest manner.

  “Sorry,” Riya mutters as she lets go, then notices the forearm crutch the girl is discreetly keeping out of sight. Riya Natrajan’s heart drops as she looks up at the girl’s parents. Their lips put on a smile that doesn’t quite make it up to their eyes.

  “It’s okay,” the girl says in a reassuring voice. “It didn’t hurt much.”

  Riya Natrajan catches herself staring at the girl, the crutch. She closes her mouth, attempts a smile, then says, “So are you enjoying yourself so far?”

  “Are you kidding? I got to meet you!” the girl squeals. “This is the best birthday present ever!” She starts singing “Love on the Rise,” even putting in the little booty shake from the video, but in her excitement, the girl loses her balance. Riya Natrajan reaches out instinctively and catches her.

  “Jennie, careful,” her father says, hovering like she’s made from glass.

  “Dad!” Jennie says. “I’m not a baby.”

  Jennie’s father’s brow drops, reminding Riya of her own father, overprotective, overbearing.

  “So you like to dance?” she asks the girl, her voice coming out so syrupy she hardly even recognizes it.

  Jennie nods. “I know all your moves.”

  “Do you, now? Well, how’d you like to be my honorary backup dancer for the night?”

  Her eyes get big as saucers. “You really mean it? I get to dance onstage with you?”

  “Dear, that’s not what honorary means. It’s a gesture,” her mother says.

  “I don’t see why she couldn’t come up onstage for one song.” Riya Natrajan gives Jennie a wink. “Maybe ‘Love on the Rise’?”

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” her father says through gritted teeth. He pulls Jennie closer to him. “Ms. Natrajan, we really appreciate your time, but if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be getting to our seats now.”

  “But, Dad! Mom?” Jennie says with tears in her eyes.

  Her mother keeps her lips pursed, then leans to Riya. “We appreciate it, but Jennie isn’t well enough. She’s got multiple sclerosis,” she whispers, face tight and apologetic.

  Riya Natrajan presses her lips together and tries to push away the memories of the endless limitations and boundaries inflicted upon her childhood. She’d lived through this once, and seeing it happen here, right in front of her, is almost unbearable.

  “Of course, I understand. But what if I dedicated a song to Jennie and had her up on the stage? A slow song, no dancing.”

  “I don’t know,” says Jennie’s father.

  “Oh, please, please!” Jennie says. “No dancing, I swear. And I’ll be so, so careful.”

  “Maybe next time, Jennie,” her mother says. “When you’re feeling a little better. Now let’s not start crying. Be strong.”

  “I’m sorry, Jennie.” Riya Natrajan sighs. She’s only making this worse. “But your parents are right. I’ll keep a spot reserved for you and whenever you’re feeling well enough to dance, we’ll shake some booty together, okay?”

  Jennie nods, wipes the tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand, and says to her father, “I can, can’t I? When I’m feeling better?”

  “Sure, honey,” her father says, rubbing her back.

  “All smiles, okay, Jennie?” Riya Natrajan opens her arms, and Jennie steps forward into them. She buries her face in the nook of Riya’s neck, tears wet against her skin. Riya whispers into her ear, “You hold on to your dreams, you hear? Don’t let anyone steal them from you, not even
the people you love. You understand?”

  Jennie nods.

  Riya Natrajan strokes her hand over Jennie’s cheek, drawing the pain into her own body, and for the first time, she’s not obsessing over how it will improve her voice. She doesn’t pull much, but she pulls enough for Jennie to throw down a few of her favorite moves in the aisle, enough for her to have a night she’ll never forget.

  “Happy birthday, Jennie,” Riya Natrajan sings, in a voice as smooth as the finest silk, yet sturdy as iron.

  “Riya?” Adam Patel’s voice calls. “You’re needed in your dressing room. We’ve got an issue.”

  Riya Natrajan nods, says her good-byes, sparing herself a moment to watch Jennie walk off with an extra spring in her step. She turns back to Adam, now sans sling, but anxiety is still seeded deeply in his eyes. “What is it now?” she asks. “You know I pay you so I won’t have to deal with these distractions.”

  “I know. But I thought you’d want to sort this one out yourself.”

  Riya Natrajan hisses as she brushes by Adam, then returns to her dressing room. Felicity Lyons is standing there in a cute dress and heels and makeup that looks like it was applied while waiting at an incredibly short stoplight. Riya slits her eyes. Oh, the nerve Felicity has to show up here, now. Not after they’d had to scramble to get a replacement act. “What are you doing here?” she rasps.

  “I’m not quite sure. I was hoping someone could tell me,” Felicity says.

  “You missed rehearsal.”

  “‘This is not a rehearsal . . .’” she says, eyes drifting off into the distance.

  “You’re damn right this isn’t a rehearsal! This is the real deal. Do you know how much time and resources I put into getting you to this point? And you repay me by flaking out at the last moment. So what’s your excuse? Stage fright? Flat tire? Hamster ate your sheet music?”

  Felicity grimaces. “Amnesia?”

  “Forgot the lyrics? Figures.”

  “Not just the lyrics,” she says. “Everything. Honestly, this is the first time I’ve seen you in person, but I get the feeling we’ve worked together? All I know is that I somehow left myself a note to be here now, and I know it’s important. I suppose you know I can put on a helluva show, if you’ll just let me have the chance.”