“You said you don’t remember anything. That includes your set? Your choreography? Felicity, I’m sorry. You’re wasting your time. And more importantly, you’re wasting mine.”
Felicity looks like a bomb went off in her chest, then she begins humming a few bars, taps a toe, does a short riff. “You know no one treats ya betta . . . And no one can do it like I do . . .”
Riya Natrajan crosses her arms over her chest and rolls her eyes. “That’s not working.” It is.
Felicity then does a shuffle step, arms out, fingers happy, and writhes her body, feet crisscrossing with a ferociousness and a passion that Riya can’t deny. Truth is Felicity’s replacement can’t dance worth piss, not like this. And while her voice is superb, her stage presence is clinical at best.
“Okay, fine,” Riya growls. “You’ve got thirty minutes to learn your routine, and if every single note, every single step is not exactly on point, I’m pulling you for good, got it?”
“Yes, Ms. Natrajan. Thank you, Ms. Natrajan!”
The edges of Riya Natrajan’s lips spread, pulling slightly upward, and not even because she’s forcing them. Oh, hell no. She’s not about to be happy. Happy doesn’t pay the bills—it’s all angst and melodrama and attitude. She turns that near smile into a snarl. “Now get the hell out of my dressing room. All of you!”
Chapter 32
Nomvula
Nomvula thinks maybe she was wrong about skirts made by strangers in faraway places. Her new one came with a tag on it and everything. The tag has a pretty picture of m-birds against the sky that says Mac and Mabel’s at the top, and below in teeny lettering: Made in Taiwan. Nomvula would like to visit there one day to thank the lady for making such a beautiful skirt. Pink flowers are stitched all the same in a twirly pattern that flows all the way down to her shoes.
And her coat! It’s just as pretty and just as long, with deep pockets in the front to put her hands in and a hood that hangs down in back. Sydney says fashion is important, especially on days like this one, when they’re going to this Riya Natrajan concert. Sydney, she looks like a queen in her dress! Oh, how it sparkles. Maybe they’ll both have a good time tonight, though Nomvula wishes Sydney would have remembered to fix lunch today, or dinner the day before, and lunch the day before that. But Nomvula doesn’t complain. This dress is so nice, she hardly remembers how hungry she is.
Outside, Nomvula bundles up against the cold and balances along a curb. These shoes she has on are hard and flat and pinch her toes, but they make wonderful music along the pavement.
“Come,” says Sydney, as she snatches Nomvula closer to her. “Wouldn’t want you falling into traffic.”
“How much farther?” Nomvula dares to ask. Normally she wouldn’t, but tonight Sydney’s in such a good mood.
“Quiet, you,” she says, waving her hand into the air, then putting it back down.
A bright blue bus passes them, lights on the side with big letters Riya Natrajan Live in Concert!, packed full of screaming people. “You think they’re going where we’re going?” Nomvula asks.
“Demigoddesses do not take public transportation. I’d rather die first.”
Nomvula walks silently for a few steps, concentrating on the patter of her shoes, then she pulls her pretty clothes tags from her pocket. She fans them out, counting them like money.
“Why don’t you throw those worthless things away?” Sydney raises her hand up at the oncoming traffic again.
“But they’re so pretty,” Nomvula says, then asks, “Why do you keep doing that?”
“I’m trying to catch us a cab,” she grumbles. “Those good-for-nothing bot taxis. I swear, if I ruin these heels . . .” Then Sydney starts muttering about demigods and flying and how things will be different tomorrow and forever after.
“I can get us one,” Nomvula says, right before she’s confronted with Sydney’s slit-eyed glare.
“Hush, child. I can’t hear myself think with you yammering all the time.”
There are cabs everywhere, but most of them are already full with people. Nomvula thinks if she can catch one of them, then Sydney would love her, maybe a little bit at first, but more and more each day. So Nomvula shoves her tags back in her pocket, then balances on the curb and faces into the white lights coming from hundreds of cars, like ghost eyes peeking out from the dark.
She sticks up a hand, just like Sydney had done, but they pass her, again and again and again.
“It’s pointless,” Sydney says, snapping Nomvula forward by the arm. “They’re all taken, and the ones that aren’t don’t stop in this sort of neighborhood. Now hurry up, or we’ll be late to the end of the world as we know it.”
Nomvula is about to ask what that means, when a long, black car pulls up to the curb next to them, so close that Nomvula reaches out and touches it. It’s got windows and windows and windows, so dark Nomvula can barely make out the bot sitting in the seat behind the steering wheel.
Hello, Nomvula, it says. Clever4–1.5.3 at your service.
Nomvula jumps up and clicks her heels together. “Sydney! Here. This one’s for us!” She goes to the door and pulls up the handle.
Sydney’s eyes get wide, her mouth tight. She looks at the car, and for a moment, Nomvula thinks Sydney’s about to hop right inside, but then she slams the door shut. “You can’t go jumping into strange cars!” she says, almost like she really cares.
“It’s not a strange car. It’s here for us. To take us to the concert.”
“That’s just what I need right now, to get thrown into jail for commandeering a bot limo! Tonight we play it safe, Nomvula, my dear.” She strokes Nomvula’s short hair, then tilts her chin up. “I’ve waited so long for this, you can’t even begin to comprehend!”
Sydney takes another step, then shrieks. She steadies herself, balancing on one foot as she examines the brown mush on her sole, her face drawn tightly in disgust. “These stupid dik-diks! I swear if I ever get my hands on one . . .” Then Sydney yells a string of curse words that Nomvula isn’t allowed to repeat.
There’s a line around the corner when they arrive. Nomvula’s good at waiting in lines. She shoves her hands in her coat pockets and rocks back and forth, enjoying the wind blowing past her ears and the smell of all the people and their perfumes and colognes. She doesn’t fear them anymore, not with the buzzing of belief in her stomach reminding her that she’s something greater. Nomvula wishes she had better control of her gift, and that Mr. Tau had taught her to use it properly. The bees are calm right now, but still slippery as slivers of wet soap.
The lights on the side of the building spell out Riya! and flicker in a pattern that Nomvula watches until it makes her dizzy. Riya’s picture is up there too, as big as the building itself! She’s smiling at Nomvula like she’s glad she came.
Closer to the front of the line, it sounds like people are mad. Nomvula steps to the side and peeks around, seeing a man heading in through one set of doors and an alphie being led through another.
“Well, I’m not leaving my bot unattended,” another man screams from the front of the line. “There’s nothing on this ticket that says anything about a no bot policy. Now either you let us in, or I demand a refund!”
“Sir, I appreciate your concern, but our storage area is completely secure. Your bot will be as safe there as it is next to you,” says a man Nomvula can only hear, but he’s got the kind of deep voice that sounds like it comes from a very big person.
“I don’t know you from a horse’s ass. Do you know how much I paid for this thing? More than you make in a year, I can assure you that!”
“There’s no need for insults, sir. I apologize for the change, but we made every effort to get the word out through all media outlets.”
“Well, obviously you did a piss-poor job with that!”
“Sir, if you will please step out of the line, we can discuss this further.”
Nomvula watches as the men and bot step away, then her attention snaps back to the door the firs
t bot had gone through. She glances up at Sydney who’s busy scraping the last traces of dik-dik feces off the bottom of her shoe, then folds quietly into the crowd. She concentrates on one of the slippery bees inside her, grabbing at it with her mind, once, twice, and again before she’s finally got a secure grip. She pops it like a grape, and basos fills her with warmth. Nomvula uses her power to become little more than a shadow. She walks right past the guard standing in the doorway and into a large room, halfway filled with bots. They’re packed so tight, it hardly seems humane. Nomvula walks between them, like soldiers all in a line, running her hands over their dome heads. She comes across five more Clevers and has a nice conversation with each of them, all in the course of a few seconds, and then finally she comes across an old friend.
I see you, Clever4–1! Nomvula says. How have you been? But she knows the answer to that. It’s been busy, spreading its beacon of light to others.
Things are well, Nomvula. I thank you for your guidance and am grateful for your mercy.
Why are you inside here? Don’t you want to see the concert?
Bots are not allowed inside.
But you’re not just a bot, now are you? Here, I’ve got an idea. Nomvula pulls off her coat and buttons it up around the Clever. Then she pulls the hood up and over its head. Perfect! she says. Now you’re just a little girl like me.
Clever4–1 does something inside that sounds like coins shaking in a jar, and Nomvula thinks it might be a laugh. Ah, but you’re not just a little girl, now are you? it says.
Nomvula kisses it on its backlit cheek, yanks the hood forward all the way, then reaches up through the sleeve until she feels one of its eight skinny spider legs and pulls it through. She holds the tip in her hand, and they go skipping back toward the door.
“Ma’am! I’ve been standing here for the last three hours, and I haven’t seen a girl come through here. I haven’t seen anyone come in here besides about a thousand chrome domes.” The guard is yelling at someone, and Nomvula doesn’t need to be a demigoddess to know who it is.
“If you don’t let me inside right now—” Sydney growls.
“There’s no girl in here, and if I’m wrong you can shove a—” He turns around. His eyes lock with Nomvula’s. “Ag, man! How’d you two get in here?”
“We’re sorry!” Nomvula tugs Clever4–1 through the doorway, quick as she can. “We were looking for the little girls’ room.” She giggles and Clever4–1 imitates the sound.
“Ma’am, you need to keep a better eye on your children,” the guard says. “And you can be sure any damage will be charged to your account. Let me see your ID.”
Sydney bites her lip, and she’s giving that man such a stink eye that Nomvula and Clever4–1 slip past her and back into line.
“Nomvula!” Sydney yells after a moment.
She sounds really mad, but Nomvula can’t help but giggle. Nomvula and Clever4–1 stay huddled up close to each other, and out of sight as the line moves.
“Come here, sweetie. You don’t want to miss the concert, do you?” Sydney’s voice grows angrier, though her words stay sweet, not like the words Sydney says to her at home—she has to act nice in front of all these people. Humans are good for that at least.
They’re next in line. Nomvula’s got no tickets, but she doesn’t really need them, now does she? Her bees are swarming inside her, too dangerous to try to control. Nomvula’s got an idea, though, and she takes her clothes tags out of her coat pocket and holds them up. They’re about the same size as tickets. She walks up in line, inserts one into the ticket machine, under the watchful eye of an attendant.
This is a concert ticket, she says to the machine, rubbing a gentle hand over top of it. It swallows it up yummy, then takes the other tag as well. Nomvula’s sad to see her tags go, but she and Clever4–1 are bound to have loads of fun inside. They rush past the coat check, Nomvula shaking her head enthusiastically, then she follows the smell of bread baking.
She stands with her face pressed up against warm glass, looking at twisted-up bread spinning around and around. They smell so good and yummy, Nomvula wants to reach right through the glass and snatch them all up, but that’d be stealing, and stealing isn’t nice, even if her stomach is really, really hungry.
“Would you two like to try a pretzel?” a woman asks. She holds out a tray full of tiny bits of bread. The woman steps close. Too close. She then looks at Clever4–1, its hood drawn forward, just the hint of its black face peeking out from beneath.
Nomvula bites her lip, but holds her ground. “Yes, please,” she says.
“And how about your sister?”
“Oh, this is my friend,” Nomvula says. “My best friend!” She smiles, thanks the lady, and takes the end of the tray.
“No, dear. Not the whole thing! Just a piece to try so you can see if you want to buy one.”
“But we haven’t got any money!”
“Well, you’re here with your mother, aren’t you?”
“My sister takes care of me. She used all her money to buy this pretty skirt. She’s so nice, but sometimes she forgets about stuff like food.”
“She does, does she?” the lady says.
Nomvula nods. “I think I made her mad, though. I just wanted to run and have fun. I hardly ever get to run since I’ve been in that cage.”
“She keeps you in a cage? Oh, dear.” The lady looks wobbly on her feet.
Nomvula shrugs and takes a piece of pretzel and pops it into her mouth. It’s so soft and salty, but not nearly as delicious as Mr. Tau’s bread. “Could I have another?”
“Just a moment.” She calls to another young woman behind the counter who hands over a giant pretzel, as big as Nomvula’s face. “This one’s on me, okay? To share.”
“Thank you!” Nomvula says, holding it with both hands. She doesn’t tell the lady that she’s going to eat Clever4–1’s half, too, but she thinks that’s okay.
Nomvula gobbles the pretzel up as they wedge their way into the crowd. They’re herded through double doors into the biggest room Nomvula has ever seen. Half her village could fit inside here. They make their way down steep steps, and below, a stage sits—a big circular stage, with two smaller stages springing out from each side, but they just sit there, looking gray and dead behind clear, plastic curtains. Still, there’s so much excitement, so much confusion, Nomvula can see why Sydney chose this place. Even now, Nomvula could give a little push, and all those people in front of her would go tumbling forward, fear springing up like daffodils. The thought lingers, longer than it should. She swallows back a mouthful of saliva. It isn’t bread you’re hungry for, comes a voice from within, dark, deep, desperate. Sydney made you promise not to feed because she wants to keep you weak. She means to kill you.
She wouldn’t. She’s my sister.
One little push. That’s all.
Nomvula suddenly finds that her hand is pressed softly against the back of the woman in front of her. So simple. It could almost be an accident. A slip of the mind, just like when she’d accidentally lost control at the township. She didn’t know what she was doing. Mr. Tau hadn’t taught her to use her powers properly, and . . . Nomvula shakes her head. Not an accident. It was no one’s fault but her own. Tears creep into her eyes, remembering how she’d once told Mr. Tau that she wanted to be a helpful god. Maybe . . . maybe it’s not too late for her to be one.
Reluctantly, Nomvula draws her hand back and places it firmly on the rail. The lights dim overhead, and the chatter pauses for a moment as the stage lights flick on, yawning to life. People rush to their seats, breezing past Nomvula and Clever4–1 who stand anchored in place.
She can’t stay here. The crowd smells so sweet, a thousand times as delicious as the scent of baking bread, and the god-creature inside her is too close to the surface. It screeches like an eagle on the hunt as it homes in on its prey . . . hundreds and thousands of lesser gods, sleeping gods. Vulnerable gods. The hunger-pain arches through her stomach and chest, pierces her bones
with sharp, pointy stingers. Nomvula clenches her eyes shut and waits for it to pass.
Nomvula, comes Clever4–1’s voice. We must continue. Sydney is coming.
She blinks her eyes back open, and through the pain, her ears tingle. She looks up to see Sydney’s face puckered up like she’d swallowed sour milk. She’s hobbling down the stairs in her heels, slow but intent.
“Why you no good little trickster! I should hang you up by your thumbs for this,” Sydney yells down.
Nomvula grabs Clever4–1’s arm, and they run down the steep steps, as the dark deepens around them. They reach the floor, but a man in a uniform stops them.
“Tickets,” he demands, aiming a flashlight at her chest.
“What?” Nomvula says. “We gave our tickets to the machine, already.”
“I need to see your stubs,” he says. “So I can take you to your seats.”
The clack of Sydney’s heels gets closer, quicker, but then the sound is swallowed up by music, a guitar and drums beating just as fast as Nomvula’s heart. Her head swims, lights blinking and twirling around, sparkling all the colors of the rainbow. It’s so loud. It infects her. Pounds away her thoughts until all that’s left is instinct. Her instinct tells her to run, but Sydney’s hand strikes out, catching Nomvula by the collar.
“You shouldn’t have run off like that,” Sydney yells, but the music gobbles her words right up. “We have to stick to the plan, remember?”
Nomvula struggles, but Sydney’s grip is tight.
“She wants to kill me!” Nomvula shrieks. The man in the uniform tightens his brow, but Sydney smiles at him and shrugs.
“Drama queen,” she yells over the fast drumbeat, then drags Nomvula back up the stairs, kicking and screaming.
“You’re weak. I could crush you, and you know it,” Nomvula says.
The Prey of Gods Page 19
