“Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.”
“Cute. Buddha. Did my father give him a hall pass, too? Like all the other gods I’m discovering he was drinking buddies with?” I shrugged. “At least you can take comfort in the fact that I can’t kill an already dead man. Shame,” I shrugged, maintaining my smile.
“All is not as it seems. Listen, and take heed of his response. Patience is a virtue.”
“While we’re reciting fortune cookies, I guess I’ll toss another in. Beware the fury of a patient man,” I said, taking a step forward, jutting out my jaw. “And I’ve been infinitely patient.”
She nodded, giving me a few moments to calm down. Which only stirred my anger to new levels. Condescension was not a good position to take with me. Ever, but especially now.
“Ichabod Temple speaks much the same way, and you claim to despise him for his actions. He is willing to do whatever it takes to achieve revenge against the Syndicate. You judge him for his actions, but his motivations you applaud? While at the same time harboring hatred in your heart for a man you think worked with the Syndicate?” She watched me, face expressionless, not judging, not demeaning, but speaking rhetorically. “Contradictions cannot exist, Master Temple. Not in part. Not in whole. You cannot hate someone willing to destroy the Syndicate, while also hating someone for allegedly being part of the Syndicate.” She dipped her head politely, and walked away, calling over her shoulder before she left. “He’s waiting for you. I set out drinks.”
And I stood alone in the hallway, panting, the wrappers crinkling in my fist. I took a deep, deep breath, and tried to regain control of my emotions, even closing my eyes. I envisioned a small strip of silk, focusing on its vibrant colors, and seeing each individual thread in the weave. Then I mentally tied a simple knot, which felt as difficult as lifting a car.
My heart rate was increasing, so I took slower, deeper breaths, forcing my calmness back.
The image of the silk knot resettled.
Then I tied another knot, slowly, carefully, controlled.
It was easier. Not easy, but easier.
I watched my creation in my mind, proud of myself. I had never been able to achieve this with Ganesh without distractions sneaking in. I knew I was still a long way off from tying forty knots or more, and even further off from mentally sharing the same silken cord with another person, taking turns to tie knots. Still, it was a huge accomplishment, and I was proud of myself.
Somehow, I knew that if I opened my eyes I would see a real silken strip of cloth before me with two neat little knots in the center.
But I didn’t open my eyes to check. Instead…
Well, I incinerated my creation, funneling as much of my white-hot rage as possible into the destructive act, seeing my father’s face in the flames.
I opened my eyes to see a small pile of ash at my feet.
I felt much more stable. I think.
I suddenly realized I wasn’t alone. Death had just exited my father’s room. He wasn’t wearing his Mask, he was just like when I had first met him in Achilles’ bar.
“I need to speak with you.”
“That’s nice. I’m a little busy,” I said, shoving past him. “Might have someone coming your way soon. New tenant.”
“That is what I need to speak with you about,” he frowned.
I stopped in my tracks, turning to face him. “Excuse me?”
“Your parents. They cannot stay here. Not much longer. Your time with them is limited. Very much so.”
Which made me angry. How dare he…
Wait a minute…
That wasn’t very rational. I had just told him I was planning on sending them back to the Underworld, in an expression of my anger.
But now that he said the very same thing for different reasons… I was suddenly angry with him? Pandora’s words repeated in my mind, and I sagged my head. “Contradictions. Double standards,” I spoke quietly. “I’m being irrational. Ridiculous, even.”
Death said nothing. I lifted my head to find him watching me cautiously. “It serves me no pleasure to inform you of this. But it is best done like taking off a Band-Aid. Short. Quick. Less painful.” I opened my mouth to argue, remembering my words to my mother only moments ago, and an ocean of vile shame and putrid guilt rolled over me. My mouth clicked closed. He nodded in understanding. After all, he was Death. Kind of his wheelhouse.
“It was always temporary, wasn’t it?” I finally whispered, knowing the answer.
“Yes. And with gods on the rise, and… other recent events, I must secure the borders…” I knew what he meant by other events, the Silver Dollar that was figuratively burning a hole in my pocket. He nodded, glancing down at my pants pointedly.
“How very… Trump of you.”
He winced. “Poor choice of words. My apologies.”
“How long do I have?”
“Not long. I would say your goodbyes quickly.” He reached out a hand, face full of pain. “I wish it were otherwise, but I gave you more than most. Knowing that it would make this moment all the more unbearable… It was worth it, to give my Brother more time to spend with them.”
I met his eyes. “I guess I’ll forgive you for the Hatter thing. For not telling me…” He dipped his head in thanks, releasing my hand. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, tried again, and then simply cleared his throat as a single tear fell down his cheeks. Then he was gone.
Now, seeing Death spill a tear over the deceased was one to make even the heartiest of men feel a sniffle. This, all by itself, killed my anger like a doused flame.
Minutes ago, I had wanted my father to pay for his crimes. His lies. Now, I had the unique experience of knowing that he was going back to the Underworld.
I wasn’t sure what that entailed – Heaven, Hell, whatever – but it changed my perspective when nothing else could have.
I was still angry, disappointed, but no longer raging. I called out my mother’s name.
But she didn’t respond. I let out a soft, horrible breath, eyes burning.
I tried one more time. “You raised me better than that. And… you can’t be that mad at me. You’re made of sterner stuff, devil woman,” I said, smiling sadly as I used the phrase my father often teased her with. “You’re a Temple…” I smiled softly, speaking more for my own sake. “I love you, mom, even though I don’t understand what you did… Deep down, I love you. I was just…” I smiled wider, “having a Temple tantrum.”
She slipped from the shadows, face a hot, wet mess.
I boldly prepared myself to withstand the Mom-ocalypse.
Without a word, she rushed at me, latching onto me to squeeze me as hard as she was able, her fingers like claws digging into my back. Her sobs rocked me, shaking my body as she clutched me like a life raft in a raging sea of storms.
Her love hit me, pouring into my injured soul like a flash flood.
I breathed in, and imagined the smell of freshly cut grass, something I always attributed to her. Because one of my fondest traditions with her had been us lounging on a blanket in the sunshine as we picnicked after my first day back to school each year.
Her cleaning my scraped knee as a boy, giving it a magical healing kiss – mom magic, that unconditional, invincible, unrelenting, real magic – before handing me back my wooden play sword as she said, face utterly serious, you’re not going to let the evil dragon get away with this, and shooing me back outside to play.
To vanquish my enemies. More memories of our shared moments stabbed into me, twisted me raw, and filled me with pain. The pain of unconditional love.
Because I now realized that this fountain of love was about to be taken from me.
After an eternity, she finally released her grip, stepping back to instead squeeze my arms.
Her eyes were bloodshot, and her face quivered with tears, but she was smiling under it all. “You were the best magic we ever made
, Nate…” She let out a soft, whimpering laugh, wiped her cheeks, and said, “Make us proud. Follow your heart…” and she gently shoved me towards the door to my father. Then she slipped away on silent feet. But her sobs pounded into my heart.
I stood for a moment, hand resting on the door, studying the grain of the wood. I wondered exactly what I wanted from my father, knowing the future of his upcoming, final journey.
I glanced down at the two packages in my fist, and a small, painful smile split my cheeks.
Perfect…
Chapter 55
My father sat before me, waiting with solemn acceptance in his eyes. He had poured two drinks that sat on a nearby table. They smelled strong.
Good.
I watched him for a moment, remembering all the moments just like this when I had entered his study at Chateau Falco.
As a child – covered in mud from head to toe and standing beside a small, stubborn, white wolf who was equally caked in filth – eager to share our adventures of the day…
From my first real fight with Gunnar, both of us yelling over the other, while my father calmly watched, face masking the amusement he later explained he had felt…
My first broken heart in middle school, when he had first let me have a small taste of his adult drink, which I had immediately spat out in disgust…
Sharing my course load and class curriculum during my first Christmas break back from College, and telling him about a fascinating young woman in my Russian Studies course…
My plans to open a bookstore, with him analyzing my projections, challenging my ideas, finally coming to a conclusion on our loan terms, because he didn’t do charity to family or friends…
The moment I handed him my last payment on the loan – hard-earned money. The first such money I truly felt was all mine, and not inherited…
These memories, and many more, flew through my mind like a movie montage, and in almost every single instance, I had found him in his study, drinking his Macallan, and…
I approached him now, and silently handed him one of the packages.
His face lit up like a child at Christmas, but not just for the item, but as if he had just relived those same moments, and the memories were solidified with the act of handing him…
“A Gurkha Black Dragon…” he whispered reverently, smiling softly at the cigar.
I didn’t dare risk speaking, so simply nodded, and then took a seat.
He opened the cigar sleeve, and withdrew the aromatic cigar, drawing it to his nose for a big whiff down the length. His eyes closed, and he hummed his approval.
I opened mine, clipped the edges with a cigar cutter from my pocket, and lit the tip with a small, steady, ball of magical flame, puffing for a few moments.
I handed it to him, exchanged it for his cigar, and then repeated the process until we were both puffing contentedly, a cloud of smoke shifting like an amoeba above our heads. I reached for my drink and took a long, sensational pull. “Fucking Macallan,” I smiled, shaking my head.
My father chuckled softly. “I stashed some here long ago, because Mallory always hid it.”
I smiled. “From you too?” I didn’t challenge him on Mallory. That didn’t matter right now.
He was typically a confident, powerful, demanding man. But right now, I sensed his anxiety. He must have known my original intent in coming here, but he had also been speaking with Death, so likely already knew about his imminent departure.
“Tell me a story…” I said softly. “I just met a woman who enjoyed these cigars. Picked up the taste from her old boss…” I paused. “Know any stories like that?”
I didn’t sound angry, and I realized… I wasn’t angry anymore. Who was I to judge? I had made plenty of bad calls. And, like every son, I had just learned that my father wasn’t perfect.
I couldn’t begin to imagine molding a tiny human for twenty years into the best version of myself, and that man someday later coming back to me to judge me on my shortcomings. But I imagined it would be… humiliating and painful. Soul-deep painful. Agonizing. Shameful.
He had let out a long sigh at my words, taking some time to gather his thoughts. “I deserve your anger. Don’t bury it. Bad for the soul, your mother says.”
“As are cigars!” her voice called out from beyond the door, and I burst out laughing.
She had been spying on us, pressing her ear to the door.
“Begone, devil woman!” My father bellowed, grinning like a fool. We heard her shriek playfully, the sound growing further away and turning into overjoyed laughter.
“She always knew how to make us laugh…” I smiled.
My father nodded, chuckling. We both seemed to gravitate towards staring out over the balcony that overlooked the sand-swept plains of wherever the hell this part of the Armory was. I remembered the different landscapes I had seen through the windows – different worlds – despite being only a few feet apart.
All in all, we handled it like brave men. Drinking, smoking, and avoiding any chance of touchy-feely moments. Two cold, powerful men. Family. A naturally occurring Testoster-zone.
“Remember your birthday on the boat? When we talked about extreme measures?”
I nodded, recalling that it was the first time I had heard mention of his Pandora Protocol, which I discovered – many years later – to be this Armory. After he and my mother had been killed for it. By a rogue Academy member trying to gain access to it.
“Around that time, I was… presented with a dilemma.” His voice was rough, and he took a long drink, clearing his throat. “The Academy was threatening to take something that they shouldn’t take. Straight robbery. For the good of the world, they said. Which they believed justified their actions. This artifact was to be taken from an upstanding family – who had provided decades of loyal service to the Academy – that had recently declined to sell the artifact to the Academy. The family had no intent to use this artifact. It was merely a family possession that they desired to keep where it belonged. Period. They weren’t even a powerful bloodline.”
I found myself interested, because he had rarely shared details on his professional life, instead, fascinated to hear about my own childish adventures with Gunnar. “Go on,” I said.
“I fought for them, tried to make the Academy see reason. They didn’t need this artifact. And if they did need this artifact so badly, why? Because the only use for such an item would have resulted in great ripples in the world, harming many magical beings. Or at least, the equivalent of amassing nuclear weapons while stating we don’t want to use them, we promise.” I remembered G Ma’s almost identical comment to me a few days ago. “This did not put me in their good favors, and I soon found myself blocked from any discussions. Discussions that were open to all members of the Academy. Especially members with a name as distinguished as our own. I found out that day that the Academy had become outright political. No longer pretending to be otherwise. They were after power.”
“That’s typically the case. Whether openly or in the dark. Power is always the goal…”
My dad nodded. “I know, but they had played me well in my life, keeping those topics buried too deeply for me to see. This situation had caught everyone by surprise, because most didn’t refuse the Academy. It gained attention like a wildfire, revealing a dark, slumbering monster that none but those at the top had ever known existed within our ranks. Soon a feeling of if you’re not with us, you’re against us permeated the very air in the halls of the Academy. Fear.”
I waited, taking a few deep pulls on the cigar, enjoying the taste, and the time with my dad.
“I was… approached. A group within the Academy feared the official stance, and their own safety. I met with them, secretly, with masks, so none may betray another. They seemed virgin, fresh, and I’ll admit… exciting.”
I nodded, understanding his position. “We ultimately decided to take the item first, use our resources, knowledge, and abilities to get items like this before the Academy could. I
ran this operation.” He held out his hands, indicating the Armory. “And was quite successful.” He took a few moments to enjoy his cigar and a few sips of his drink. I refilled us, waiting, his story helping me relieve myself of those monstrous emotional tentacles my mother had magically ensnared me with.
“I soon learned the error of my ways. The group I had met was part of something larger, and had existed for many, many years. The Syndicate,” he whispered, finally saying the name out loud. “And now that they had me dead to rights, with proof that I had taken these items ahead of the Academy, they attempted to blackmail me.” He met my eyes. “By harming you and your mother. Did you ever wonder why the Academy tried so hard to get you to go to their schools? Although they are hungry to enlist, they usually don’t try that hard. I believe it was really plants for the Syndicate, but I fought them tooth and nail, researching like a mad man, trying to build up Temple Industries, fortifying the Armory, barring it from entry for all but a select few. I hunted gods, monsters, made deals with devils to keep you, your mother, and this Armory safe. Because those monsters were better than the Syndicate, who wanted all the items I had stolen.”
I had to remind myself to breathe. “Then you were murdered.”
He nodded, tapping his chest with a faint grin. “Was going to happen sooner or later. They were getting desperate. It’s why I gave you the Maker’s gift, to try and give you a fighting chance, because in my adventures, I found reference to a prophecy long thought dead. It’s why I hired Mallory, worked with Shiva, and many others. This was your only option to survive what is to come.”
I shivered. “But I ruined that…”
He sighed. “Perhaps. But all is not lost. Many different branches to success sprouted from the fact that you merely inherited the power. Nothing was said about a Maker having to be present at the war, just that you needed to become a Maker to survive long enough to see it.”
“That can’t… listen. Prophecies aren’t real,” I argued.
He shrugged. “Possibly. Then again, you’re still breathing, and despite setbacks, the whole world knows your name right now. You must have shown them that Temple charm.” He winked.
Tiny Gods: A Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Book 6 (The Temple Chronicles) Page 28
